


Devil's Dance Floor

by BananaFana0883



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaFana0883/pseuds/BananaFana0883
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoiler Warning</p><p>Takes place mostly in Scotland, after Sam's release from prison and before he meets up with Nate again for the events of Uncharted 4.  There will also be 'flashback' scenes here and there to help build the relationship foundations, possibly all the way back to childhood.  I very much enjoy exploring relationships and the emotions that drive them; this isn't a very action oriented fic.  Sam is the focal point and main POV character and I touch on my own headcanon of the very messy relationship between he and Rafe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a whim after yet another playthrough of Uncharted 4. It takes place before the events of Uncharted 4; right after Rafe bribed Sam free from prison and brought him to Scotland. It also introduces an original character - Nadine's sister - so if you're not into that, feel free to not read. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this - I write like I live my life, flying by the seat of my pants. If there's any interest, I may continue writing it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the canon Uncharted characters, ideas, or world, but I do own my original characters. I've never been to Scotland and all I know about South Africa I learned through Google, so please forgive any glaring errors (or if you're feeling polite, you could *politely* point them out to me. Politely.)

With elbows on the worn bar and shoulders hunched, Sam Drake absently rolled the pint glass between his calloused palms, eyes intent on the swirl of amber liquid inside and his ears only half-trained on the gossip flowing from the mouth of the man across from him, separated as they were by the stretch of scarred and polished wood.  

"Used to be a quiet place," the owner of the little pub prattled on, eyes going to back corner of the room in a pointed glance.  "The whole town was."

Sam gave a cursory glance over his shoulder, though he knew exactly who the red-bearded Scotsman was referring to: the group of security contractors, all in fatigues and _Shoreline_ tees, downing shots between their pint refills.  Their volume had been steadily increasing along with their blood alcohol levels, raucous laughter and crude taunts filling the small pub.  Paranoia and a healthy sense of self preservation had Sam keeping an eye on their reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall across from him, above the line of liquor bottles.  Chances were, they'd been told by either Rafe or Nadine to stay away from him, but men got particularly stupid when there was booze involved, Sam found.

The bartender shrugged one thick shoulder, "They make up for the noise with their money though.  And the regulars, ya know, they understand.  Mostly."  And it seemed that Sam's vague nod was enough of an invitation because the comment was followed up by a lengthy discourse, in rich Scottish brogue, on how his income had nearly doubled in the year since _that Shoreline lass_ had taken up with the _wealthy fellow_ who had bought the Cathedral some years back.  "You know, the one up the cliffs a few kilometers north?"

"I've heard of it," Sam assured him with a sardonic twist of his lips.  He lifted his near empty glass, eyebrows rising in silent request for a refill, then downed the last of the beer in a long swallow.  God, that was _good_.

The barkeep, Sam soon found out, could _talk_ but the near constant stream of chatter was a welcome distraction from the guilt and second-guessing that had consumed his thoughts ever since he'd walked out of the Panamanian prison and came face to face with Rafe Adler.

Freedom.  It was a concept that had become more and more abstract as the years had passed without hope for it; minutes turning into days, days to weeks, weeks to years.  Thirteen of them.  Well, nearly anyway - twelve years, three hundred and six days, to be exact.  But then, suddenly, _freedom_ .  Not the sort that he'd hoped for though.  Oh sure, he was _technically_ a free man, but there were expectations of debts repaid and Sam had barely had time to process the implications of Rafe's actions before he found himself here, in _Scotland_.  

And now here.  In a tiny village in the Highlands, drinking beers alone in an even tinier pub that couldn't even boast a proper name.  The locals called it _Allanach's,_ for the owner's surname, he assumed, but there was no sign proclaiming it as such and no menu with a logo printed on it.  They had food though, and Sam had already polished off a plate of the best roasted venison with neeps and tatties that he'd ever eaten - though after over a decade eating prison food, he was sure just about anything would taste like heaven on his tongue.

The sound of the front door opening - complete with the merry jingle of a brass bell - had Sam's eyes and his attention drifting from the talkative bartender to the feminine form that strode across the threshold.  Funny that the first truly gorgeous woman he'd lay eyes on since being released, aside from _Nadine Ross_ , happened to look quite a bit like her.  Not a bad thing, in Sam's opinion - Nadine was a particular type of stunning, after all - though this one was _different_ and it wasn't just the ginger curls she'd twisted into a pouf at the back of her head or the faceful of freckles, but the way she carried herself.  Nadine's sister.  Sabine?  Sadie?  Sa . . . pphire?  What the hell was her name?  Hell, he couldn't remember; she'd only been mentioned in passing by Rafe.

Sam's attention was thoroughly captured now though, and he watched from the corner of his eye as she passed, giving the bartender a nod and a smile as she made her way toward the other contractors where she was greeted loudly.

"Another Ross," the bartender supplied.  "The other's sister.  She's a nice lass."

Again, Sam nodded, eyes going to the mirror again as he took another hearty swig.  He could just see her past his left shoulder and he watched as she gave the men a round of hellos and shoulder claps.  Her tank top was dotted with raindrops, tiny speckles of darker forest green that stood out almost as much as the freckles he found himself captivated by even from as far away as he was.  He'd always liked a girl with a unique look and Nadine's sister certainly fit the bill.  Fit it as well as those fatigues fit her, he was quick to notice.

Christ, it had been too long since he'd touched a woman.

Christ, he needed a _smoke_.

It was as good an excuse as any to get out of there and Sam forced his eyes away from her reflection, one booted foot landing on the floorboards as he stuffed a hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a small wad of cash.   _It's a loan_ , Rafe had told him.   _With interest.  The faster we find Avery's treasure, the less you'll owe me._  Asshole.  

"Leavin' already?"

Sam's head jerked up, lips parting in surprise as he found Ms. Ross herself - Sabrina?  Fuck, what was her name? - at his side.  She stepped closer, leaning one elbow on the bar and popping the opposite hip out just far enough to be a distraction, and he found himself without words as she lifted an eyebrow in question.

"It's still early," she continued and her brown eyes, smooth as hot cocoa, went to the pint in front of him.  "And you 'aven't even finished your drink."

Sam glanced away and cleared his throat, using the motion of pressing his fisted hand against his lips as a focus to pull himself together.   _Just leave.  Excuse yourself and then get up and walk away because nothing good is comin' from this._  His eyes landed on her again as his hand went back to his pocket and a battered pack of cigs appeared.  "Just stepping out for a cigarette," he lied, tapping one out and slipping it between his lips.

Her eyebrow twitched upward again, but there was a spark there in her eyes that hinted at her . . . what?  Amusement?  Interest?  What had she heard about him?  "I'll join you," she announced, pushing off the counter and taking a few steps toward the door.  

Sam watched her, eyes skating down her body, but he didn't move until she turned back to him and tipped her head toward the door.  

"C'mon then."

And instead of saying no, instead of using his good sense and just taking the Jeep back to the stupid fucking _castle_ that Rafe had rented for the duration of their stay, Sam rose to his feet and followed her out into the drizzling night.  

There were three Jeeps parked outside the pub, all with _Shoreline_ emblazoned across the sides, and Sam leaned against the front grill of the one he'd driven there earlier, forcing himself into a relaxed pose as he cupped his hands around the delicate flame of his lighter and puffed until the end of the cigarette caught.  She was watching him.  He could feel the weight of her eyes on him, heavy and intent, but it wasn't until he'd blown out a lungful of smoke that he looked back at her.  

Her ginger hair was frizzing at her temples, catching the drops of rain, and Sam's fingers itched to reach up and spring the moisture off of those curls.  Instead, he crossed his free arm across his chest, tucking his hand into the opposite armpit and met her gaze with a steadiness that he didn't actually feel.

"I know who you are," she opened, hands settling on her hips.  "Samuel Drake, _jailbird_."  

Sam gave a vaguely amused snort at that, glancing away from her with a half-roll of brown eyes.  "Wow," he said, shaking his head.  "Just lay it out there, why don't ya?"

She was watching him closely.  "Your brother is that clown, Nathan, who Rafe is always goin' on about."  

Suddenly offended, Sam's shoulders tensed and his eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to defend his brother--

But she lifted her hands, placatingly.  " _His_ words, not mine," she clarified, freckled nose wrinkling.  "I think he's _bitter_."  A dismissive wave of one hand.  "Either way, Samuel Drake, Rafe seems to think that with you on board, we'll actually be able to find this treasure he's got a hard-on for."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.  Her words had the desired effect, smoothing out the knotted muscles of his shoulders and breaking the ice a bit.  "Well," he flicked away a flurry of spent ashes, "I'd say his chances have certainly improved."  He was beginning to think that Rafe couldn't find his own hard-on without a fucking map.

She stepped forward then, crossing the meager distance between them in half a stride, and reached up to pluck the cigarette from between his fingers.  "Hey--" Sam started, but the protest died on his lips as his eyes focused on _her's_ , full and puckered as they closed around the butt of the cigarette.  She was younger than he'd expected, mid-twenties maybe, but the way she watched him as she let the smoke slowly trail from nose and lips had the thought quickly skipping away from him.  What did it matter, anyway?  It wasn't like she'd have any interest in _him_ , a guy nearly old enough to be her father who'd just been bribed out of prison.

But - _fuck!_ \- if that look in her eye didn't make him think twice!

She held the cigarette up to his lips, still standing very close, and Sam found himself captivated by her eyes, focused as they were on _his_ lips this time.  

"I'm Simone."

He allowed her to place the cig between his lips again and there was a moment of clarity as the clues he'd been denying all fell into place.  Old enough to (maybe) be her father or not, there was no doubt in his mind that she was flirting with him; or maybe _flirting_ was too mild a word, too innocent, and _seducing_ was a more apt term.  There was nothing innocent in the way she was looking at him right then.  

He inhaled, the cigarette bobbing with the motion, then reached up to take it between his fingers.  "Simone," he repeated, drawing the name out and letting it roll off his tongue like a filthy secret hidden in the cloud of cigarette smoke.  

She smiled and there was a tiny gap there between her front teeth.  Perfect, yet imperfect.  It made his heart race in his chest.

"Simone _Ross_ ," he clarified, because that was a very important detail.

Her smile wilted just a touch, "Does that matter?"  

Sam looked at her, eyes fastening on her face.  "Course it matters."   _Obviously_.  

Simone's eyes narrowed, the smile fading from her lips completely, and with a quick movement she stole his cigarette again.  This time though, she stepped away from him, out of reach unless _he_ wanted to come closer.  "Always does," she shrugged, taking another drag.  "You're afraid of 'er?"

"Afraid?" Sam chuckled, deciding that he'd lost his cigarette and putting a second one between his lips.  Was Nadine Ross scary?  Yeah, she was.  She was a badass with an entire legion of mercenaries at her beck and call but there was nothing she could do to him that would be worse than the last decade of his life had been.  So he shook his head, absently rolling the cigarette butt between thumb and forefinger, "No, not quite."

There was a beat of contemplative silence  - broken only by the faint rush of waves in the distance and the muffled laughter filtering through the heavy pub door - as Simone studied him, her scrutiny prompting him to shift his weight against the front of the Jeep, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking.

"I can't tell if that makes you brave or stupid," she said after a moment.

Well, that answered that.  Sam grinned lopsidedly, another chuckle escaping his chest, though this one had an edge of self deprecation.  "My money's on stupid."

She laughed then, loud and open, and it was the sort of laugh that caught the attention of strangers from across a room and it had that very same effect on Sam.  He found himself laughing as well, quieter and far more subdued though.  He liked the way her freckled nose wrinkled when she laughed, how she threw her head back and let the noise just erupt from her throat, and he couldn't quite pull his eyes away from the curve of her neck and the dip where her collarbones met . . .

"C'mon," she said, suddenly, mirth still sparkling in her dark eyes as she flicked the cigarette away and stepped forward to grab his wrist.  

"What?"  The word slipped out without him meaning it and he nearly stumbled forward before catching his balance.  "Where're we going?" he asked, picking up the pace as she half-dragged him across the street.  

"You'll see," she answered, dropping her grip on him as they reached the line of squat stone buildings.  

"I have a tab to pay," he protested weakly.

"It'll still be there when we get back."

She led the way down the sidewalk, setting a brisk pace that he easily fell into step with, and Sam couldn't stop his eyes from drifting toward her as they walked and he swore he could still feel the warmth of her hand around his wrist.

Thus far, Simone Ross was a mystery.  She had been direct with him, a bit playful, and not nearly as cold as Nadine often seemed to be.  Physically she appeared capable, her bare arms toned, and she moved with the grace of someone who was confident in herself and her abilities.  That made sense though, being that she was a security contractor.  What _didn't_ make sense was why this warrior princess was trotting through a little Scottish village in the Highlands with _him_.  

"Here, this way," she directed, turning down a narrow alley and at the end of it, he could see the crash of waves against the rocky beach.

"The beach?"  Sam arched an eyebrow at her, pausing at the end of the alley to snuff his cig out under the heel of his boot.  "That where you're takin' me?"

She lifted one freckled shoulder in a shrug, "What's wrong with that?  You don't like the beach or something?"

"Well, it ain't exactly beach weather," he argued, lifting a hand and feeling the plop of raindrops on his palm, but his feet were moving, taking him ever closer to the wave breaker and the coarse sand beyond.  

Simone's face broke out into a challenging grin and she jogged to catch up with him.  "So?"  She bumped him lightly with her elbow and when he glanced at her he found her eyes on the tattoo that decorated the side of his neck.

"So, I can't work on my tan," he quipped, coaxing another laugh from her and the sound of it had his belly twisting in a strange mix of excitement and apprehension.  

"Shame," she joked right back.  "You are a bit pasty."

"Pasty?" Sam laughed, hopping down off the wave breaker and turning to watch her do the same.

Simone's nose wrinkled again, "A bit, yeah."  She leaned back against the cement bank, bending down to begin untying the heavy boots she wore.  "Probably from all those years of being locked up.  Betcha happy to be out of stripes, though."

"We didn't wear _stripes_ ," Sam scoffed.

"Orange, then?"

"Grey, I'll have you know."  

She stuffed her socks into the boots and pushed off of the wall, "Grey?   _Boring_."  She padded toward him, kicking up little arcs of sand with every exaggerated step, hands balling into the thighs of her cargo pants and tugging the hems up over her ankles and Sam found his gaze drawn to her feet.  Her toenails were painted blue.  

"Sort of a greyish blue," he added lamely, dragging his eyes upward as she stopped in front of him.  She was close.   _Very_ close, and staring up at him with expectant eyes, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what she wanted.  And then she reached up, brushing fingertips along the scar next to his right eye and he had a silent argument with himself as to whether he should be pulling back or pushing her hand away--

"How'd you get this?" Simone asked, her voice soft.

Sam studied her face, watching as her eyes flicked to meet his gaze.  "Fight," he answered, simply.  No details, no elaboration.  It wasn't a story for a stranger.  

"Rafe said you were shot."  Her hand went to the back of his neck, wrist resting on his shoulder as her fingers toyed with the tendrils of hair that curled behind his ear.

The rain had begun to pick up again, from a light mist to actual raindrops, and her skin prickled with goosebumps.  She wasn't dressed for this weather - not that he really was either - but he doubted that this had been her plan for the evening either.

He nodded in answer to her question and his eyes dipped downward as she leaned in closer.  Her chest was scant inches from his own, her nipples tight under the cotton of her tank and the sports bra she wore underneath.  And suddenly his throat was uncomfortably dry and he felt like a fucking teenager again, struck speechless by a pretty face and the promise of intimacy.  "I was," he answered and his voice was rough.  "Three times."

"Where?"

His heart was hammering in his chest, pounding a steady tempo that echoed in his ears, and (almost) every part of him was in agreement that this was a bad idea.  Standing on a beach at night, in the rain, with Simone Ross looking at him like _that_ . . .

But it didn't stop him from reaching down and pulling the hem of his tee-shirt up, revealing the three dimpled scars just under his ribs.  

Simone's attention went to his midsection, head bowing as her hand on his shoulder stilled and the other came up to skim lightly over the old wounds.  He couldn't really feel it - the nerves around the scars had given up long ago, leaving the area mostly numb - but still her gentle attentions had things low in his belly stirring.

"That's terrible," she whispered, eyes flicking up to his face.

"Wasn't exactly a walk in the park," he returned with a twitch of one shoulder that could almost have been a shrug.  

"Or a stroll on the beach."

Sam's smile was distracted - mostly because her hand had traveled downward, fingertips tracing lightly over the skin just above his belt - but still he managed to murmur, "Or that."

When he didn't push her hand away or move away from her, or tell her no, Simone's other hand dropped to his belt as well and with a bit of fumbling managed to get it undone in a jingle of metal.  And still Sam stood there with his arms at his sides, as if touching her would prove that this was all a wet dream, that he would wake with a start and find himself back behind bars with a snoring cellmate across the narrow room.  

But he didn't wake.  No, this was _happening_ and, in that second, it was the only thing in the world he wanted.  She could have asked him for anything, _at that very second_ , and he would have promised it to her so long as she said--

"You can touch me, Sam."

Permission was given in the form of a whisper against his lips, the faint scent of smoke lingering on her breath, and it was all the invitation he needed.  He caught her lips with his, hands gripping her hips and pulling her closer, drawing a soft noise of surprise from her throat.  His hands snaked under the hem of her tank, smoothing over her lower back and the impossibly soft skin there.  And her hands were busy as well, popping the button of his jeans, parting the the zipper and reaching inside to wrap her hand around him.

Sam groaned against her lips, already feeling his control slipping through his fingers, and his own hands, clumsy and shaking, went to work at her pants.  

"Let me help," Simone ordered, and between the two of them they managed to get the fatigues past her hips and snake one leg free and then he was on her again like a starving man falling on a buffet.  His hands slid down to muscular thighs and the feel of her skin, damp with falling rain, chased every doubt from his mind.  It didn't matter that she was Nadine Ross's younger sister, or that she was far too young for him, or that she just _happened_ to have a condom in the cargo pocket of her pants, or that he was pinning her to the concrete wavebreaker with her legs wrapped around his waist.  

None of it mattered.

What did matter was being close to her warmth, tasting the salt of her skin as he dragged messy kisses across her shoulders and throat, the sound of her low moan as he dipped a hand between their bodies and came away with slick fingers that he couldn't help but lick clean.  And - oh god! - he took it back; _that_ was the best thing he'd ever tasted and the trembling sigh that left him proved it.

She was watching his face, her eyes heavy-lidded against the drizzling rain.  "Taste good?" she asked, the words smooth as silk and just as sexy.

Sam found himself fixing her with a hungry stare as he answered, "Fuck yeah."  Truth was, had he been on death row and it on the menu, pussy would have been his last meal.

"Feel free to partake," she offered with a smile, obviously loathe to discourage him.

But really, he needed no encouragement, quite willing to drop to his knees in the sand and bury his face between her thighs and when she was ready, he slipped a couple of fingers in for good measure.  Her taste, scent, the way her hand grasped at his head as she hooked her leg over his shoulder, had him reeling with lust and he knew that he wasn't going to be able to hold out long once he was inside of her - hell, if she didn't come quickly, he might not be able to hold out at all with the way her gasps and moans were affecting him.  

But God or Lady Luck or _someone_ was on his side because those gasps and moans turned into full on writhing - and, absurdly, Sam wondered how her back was faring against that cement wall - and then her hips tensed, her breath caught, and she bucked against his face and he very nearly came right along with her.   _Fuck_ , that was hot!

Her leg slid down his shoulder, but he caught it on his forearm as he rose to his feet, shoving his pants further down his thighs as she rolled the condom into place.  With his free hand, he guided himself inside of her, his breath stuttering with every inch of warmth, teeth gritting against the sensations that were threatening to overwhelm him and her soft murmurs of encouragement in his ear were only pushing him along faster than he wanted.

His eyes closed, mind filling with disparate images to try and slow his arousal, to gain control over the pleasure so he could hold out for more than _two fucking minutes_ . . .

". . . hallowed be thy name . . ."

"Sam?"

". . . thy will be done . . ."

"Sam, what are you--  Are you _praying_?"

His eyes snapped open, fixing on Simone's face from only inches away.  Her brows were knit with confusion, her mouth hanging open, and a slow drop of rainwater making its way down her nose as she stared at him in silence.  "Shit," he breathed, face burning.  "I-- fuck! - Simone, I'm sorry."  The words flew from his mouth before he could stop them, a quick and embarrassed ramble, "It's been a long time since I've done this and I don't know how long I can hold out and, _my god_ , you feel so amazing . . ."

Her face softened, the confusion melting away as understanding took over.  "How long since you've been with a woman?" she asked gently.

"Ah," his face screwed up a bit as he considered, "Thirteen years, give or take."

"Shit," Simone said softly, eyebrows twitching upwards in surprise.

"Yeah."

"Well," she said with a sudden smirk, clenching her body around him and drawing a gasp from his lips, "Don't hold back on my account."

Oh, thank God!  His hand came up to brace on the wavebreaker beside her head, his other cupping her ass, and he plunged into her, prompting the most delicious gasp from her lips.  He wanted to hear it again, and _again_ , and that desire mixed with the raw scent of sex and the feel of her body enveloping his spurred him onward with desperate thrusts that had him climbing that peak of orgasm sooner than any man was really content with.  

"Oh fuck, baby," she purred into his ear, teeth catching the lobe in a quick nip.  "Harder - yes!  Fill me up.   _Jy voel so goed._ "

There was no way he could hold back any longer and with a gasping curse and one last thrust, he came hard enough that he swore his vision swam.  He dropped his head forward, burying his face into the side of his neck and feeling her pulse flutter against his closed eyelid.  And he could have stayed there forever, with her scent strong in his nose and her hands gently massaging over his shoulders and up the back of his neck.  

The contact, the _intimacy_ , it was what he'd craved more than anything, he realized.  Sure, sex was fucking amazing and it had certainly been on the top of his to-do list, but it was in this moment right here, with Simone's curious fingers idly tracing the lines of the tattoo on his neck, with his body still buried deep within her's, that he truly felt like a free man.  


	2. The Apple Now is Sweet

 

Reclined back on the unmade bed, Sam was nearly a hundred pages into _Trainspotting_ when a knock had his eyes leaving the print and drifting toward the door.  For a second he debated answering - assuming it was Rafe since no one else would bother to knock on his door at nearly eleven at night.  They'd spent the day bickering, snipping at each other in a way that'd had Nadine huffing in annoyance, and eventually she'd put her foot down and insisted that they were getting nothing done.  They needed a break from each other, she'd said, and Sam hadn't disagreed.

The initial gratitude that he'd felt toward the rich little prick for getting him out of prison hadn't lasted long, he'd found, and his animosity for Rafe was growing with every passing day.    Seriously, getting him out of prison had been the _least_ Rafe could do after Sam had served his fucking sentence for him.   _He_ hadn't been the one who'd stuck a knife in Vargas!

The plans were percolating though and Sam had spent all those years waiting, which meant that he could wait a bit longer before making his move.  He needed more time to gather whatever clues he could before approaching Nathan and he sure as hell needed to come up with a plausible story for his sudden reappearance.  Which meant sucking it up and dealing with Rafe for the time being.  Which also meant opening the door.

Sam sighed and set the book aside, climbing off the bed to step into the jeans he'd shucked earlier and crossed the small cottage to pull open the door, but instead of a contrite Rafe, Sam found himself staring at Simone Ross.  

It had been almost a week since he'd seen her, since he'd fucked her on the beach like a horny teenager and his performance had been so terrible that he'd expected to never see her again.  Yet here she was and she greeted his surprise with a bright smile and a jut of one hip, lifting her hand and presenting him with a bottle of single malt.  

"Stole it from the smoking room," she said, tipping her head toward the castle looming behind her.  Her hair was down tonight, the tight curls brushing the tops of her shoulders with every movement, and he found himself stepping backward without a word, giving her permission to enter with body language alone.  

"How'd you manage to get your own space?" Simone asked, stepping inside on bare feet and giving a curious glance around.  She didn't wait for an answer though, just continued on as she circled the room, "Everyone else is up at the main castle and you're livin' like a hermit down here.  's boring, isn't it?"

"I like the quiet," Sam admitted, closing the door behind her.  That was the second time he'd heard her refer to something as 'boring' and it made him wonder, again, why she was here.  If she thought he was boring, or if being _bored_ was such a big deal, then why was she bothering to knock on his door?

He watched as she set the bottle on the coffee table and then turned to run a hand along the mantle of the stone fireplace.  She was out of fatigues, instead wearing a tiny pair of kelly green shorts that left her legs on display, and he didn't bother to try to hide it as he drank in the sight of her.  Her sweater, slouchy but short enough to flash little hints of skin along her midriff, had slipped off one shoulder.

"Can't imagine it's very quiet in prison."

Boy, did she hit the nail on the head with that one.  "Not at all," he answered with a shake of his head.  It was the reason he'd been having trouble sleeping.  While the quiet may have been nice in the evening or first thing in the morning, it made it nearly impossible for him to fall - and _stay_ \- asleep.  

He circled the couch, leather and expensive with a certain _rustic charm_ , and picked up the bottle of scotch.  "Glenmorangie," he read, turning it over in his hands.  Had he not been here at Rafe Adler's hospitality, he might have been impressed.  

"That good?" Simone asked, turning to face him fully.  There was something _unsure_ in her posture, her hands coming together in front of her, fingers twisting the sleeve of her sweater, that had Sam softening.  "I don't know much 'bout scotch," she admitted.

"Yeah," Sam answered with a nod.  He didn't know much about it either but he was pretty sure this bottle was - he checked the date - yup, older than his prison stint.  Eighteen year old booze had to be good, right?  "I guess," he amended with a shrug, lips pulling into a smile.  "Truthfully?  It's been a long time since I drank _any_ whiskey and before that, it was usually the cheap shit."

Simone grinned, "The cheap shit'll still get you drunk."  She pointed toward the bottle in his hands, taking a step closer, "But that'll make you look high class while doin' it."

Sam laughed.  "High class, eh?  Never been accused of _that_."

She laughed that same attention-grabbing laugh, curls bouncing and eyes sparkling in the low light and he desperately wanted to bring her closer to the bed, where the light from the bedside table was brighter.  He wanted to study every one of those freckles, analyze how the light played off the burnished bronze of her skin, touch those ginger curls, and smell the sweet musk between her thighs . . .

His body woke at the memory of her lips on his neck, her warmth pressed against him, and it must have shown there on his face - possibly in the hungry lick of his lips as he set the bottle down again - because she was moving closer; in fact, she didn't even bother skirting the coffee table and instead just went up and over it, placing one pretty foot in the center of the heavy oak and using it like a stepping stone to climb into his arms.

Once there she kissed him, all soft lips and silky tongue, and Sam found himself shifting his weight back onto his heels to compensate for Simone's.  She tasted sweet, like some sort of dessert and without a hint of the cigarette smoke that had tinged her breath a week prior.  

She broke the kiss suddenly, pulling back enough to brush the tip of her nose against his, eyes blinking open to meet his gaze.  "You wanna fuck?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of those full lips.

"Oh _god_ , yeah," he breathed, leaning in to capture her lips again.  

* * *

 

She'd had a strip of condoms tucked into the waistband of those little shorts but, truth was, Sam probably would have gone for it even if she hadn't.  He'd been too long out of the game to turn down sex with a willing and eager partner.  Eager.  Fuck, that was one way to put it.   _Energetic_ was another.  Lively.  Exuberant.  

Simone had _giggled_ when he tugged those shorts down her legs; legs that were prickly with a day or two of hair growth and all the more compelling for it.  She'd been much more talkative this time around too, dishing out directions as if he'd never done this before, but it was hard to complain when she was laid out in front of him, completely bare and watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.  

He'd been able to take in every inch of her body, from the dark peaks of her breasts - just the perfect handful, in his esteemed opinion - to the dip of her belly as she gasped in a moaning breath, all the way to those blue-painted toes, and somewhere in the back of Sam's mind his good sense had been telling him that this was _still_ a bad idea.  He'd ignored it.

Naked and spent, the two found themselves tangled up together in a mess of blankets and still-wandering hands.  Her skin, though lighter than her sister's, looked so dark next to his own and he watched her hand as it smoothed over his chest, fingers seeking out one nipple to playfully tweak.

"Hey," he protested, simultaneously turning toward her and reaching up to nudge her hand away.

Simone's grin was teasing as she said, "Whatsa matter, you don't like that?"

"It's not that," Sam explained, and there may have been a hint of a pout there in his brow.  "They're just . . . sensitive right now."  

"Oh ho!" Simone laughed, giving him a rough jostle.  "I'll 'ave to make note of that."

Sam looked at her in amusement, brow furrowing, "Make note?  Whataya keeping a journal?"

Simone's grin widened, "Maybe I am!"  Her voice kicked up an octave and she twisted a curl around one finger as she stared up at the ceiling, "Dear Diary, today I learned that after he _blows his load_ , Samuel Drake's nipples are so sensitive that I'm not allowed to touch them."  Her eyes flicked to his face, eyebrows twitching up suggestively, "Disappointing, really, because all I want do is _bite them_."

"Bite 'em?" Sam laughed, pulling her closer and pressing a nuzzling kiss against the hollow of her throat.  

"Mmm," she purred, the noise vibrating against his lips as she tipped her head back and allowed him access.  "A big bloody bite," she continued, distractedly.  "Men don't need nipples anyway, yeah?"  

"Something like that," he agreed, pushing himself up and moving atop her.  His attentions went to her chest, kissing and nipping his way down the valley between her breasts, one hand coming up to test that handful again.  Yup, still a perfect fit.  

There was a scar on her ribs, about two inches long and just under her right breast, and Sam found himself hesitating there, fingers curiously tracing along it.  It was jagged, almost more of a tear than a slice, either that or it had been allowed to heal without the help of sutures.  "What happened?" he asked, lifting his eyes to her face.

Simone was watching him closely, but there was something guarded in her eyes as she shook her head, amusement fading.  "Don't wanna talk 'bout it."

Sam could respect that; hell, he'd pulled that same shit with her last time.  "Alright," he acquiesced, pressing a soft kiss to that imperfection.  The action prompted a change in her breathing, so slight that he would have missed it had he not been so intimately close to her, but he didn't know her well enough to venture a guess as to what it could mean.  

"Your accent . . ."  Her hand slipped down between them, wrapping around him and giving a few practiced strokes.

Sam groaned in response and there was a hint of pride there in his chest that the blood was flowing again so soon after their last romp.  Middle age could go fuck itself.  "What about it?"

"Where're you from?"  She pushed him down onto his back and climbed atop him, straddling his thighs as she rolled a fresh condom into place.  

"Originally?" he asked, the word slipping out before he could realize how dumb he sounded.  Sue him, he was a bit preoccupied.  "Boston.  Well, technically _South_ Boston.  After that . . ."  He gave a wishy-washy sort of head bob, one eye squinting shut, "Ah, here and there?"  File it under _Things We Don't Talk About_.

"Here and there."  She smiled and lowered herself onto him, dragging another hungry moan from his throat.  "You've been all over the world, yeah?"  She swiveled her hips - slowly, teasingly - bracing her hands on his chest as did.

"Not really, actually," he corrected, eyes focused quite intently on her breasts.  "Spent a lot of time in Central and South America.  Learned a lot of Spanish, enough Portuguese to get by."  He shrugged a bit, the movement almost lost in the bigger one that settled his hands on her hips in encouragement, "I mean, I've been around but it's not like I could just . . . hop on a plane when-whenever I wanted."

Her tempo began to pick up right along with his heartbeat, and while her words still came, they were breathy and halting, "You ever . . . been to South . . . Africa?"

Sam shook his head, idly wondering if she actually expected him to keep up a conversation while she was riding him into oblivion.  "Not yet."  His eyes ran over her curves, lingering on the bounce of her breasts, the taut muscles of her stomach, before heading southward again to fasten on the sweet junction of their bodies.  "Heard it's," he panted "beautiful."

She touched his chin, prompting him to meet her gaze, and he found himself unable to look away as her orgasm swept through her body.  Her lips parted, letting out a string of filthy frantic curses, and she gasped and moaned atop him, her fingernails digging into his chest, and through it all they held that eye contact.  

It was the intimacy just as much as the sensations that pushed him into his own orgasm, his hips jerking up to meet hers, and his fingertips digging roughly into the smooth skin at her waist.  "Jesus - _fuck!_ " he gasped, ecstasy crashing through him.  

And it was then, with Simone's legs trembling against his hips, that she said, "Maybe we can go together."

He blinked at her, dumbly, as his stuttering brain struggled to figure out what the hell she was talking about.  "Go where?" he asked, voice rough.  

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, eyebrows twitching upward.  "South Africa," she  announced, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  "After we find the treasure, course."

_Click, click_ and the pieces fell into place.

There was a beat of heavy silence and then Sam found himself pulling away, emotionally and physically, using his grip on her waist to move her off of him so he could swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach for the cigarettes waiting on the bedside table.

"Hey."  The bed dipped behind him as Simone scooted up behind him.  Her hand slid over his shoulder and she moved in closer to him, pressing her warm softness against his back, her breath tickling the curve of his ear as she asked, "What's wrong?"

Sam puffed in a deep lungful of smoke and tar and nicotine, using the second it bought him to try and sort through the emotions tumbling through him.  It made sense, really; why else would she bother with him? Right now he was nothing but a convict, but if this all played out the way it was supposed to . . . well, one hundred and thirty-four million would make him one hell of a sugar daddy.

Anger tightened his jaw and something that was pathetically close to _betrayal_ had his stomach souring uncomfortably.  He shook his head, a disgusted noise slipping from the back of his throat and he couldn't help but ask, "How old are you, anyway?"

Behind him, Simone went very still, and he resisted the urge to turn and look at her to see what sort of expression she wore on that pretty face.  "Twenty-five," she answered, her voice carefully neutral.

"Fuck," Sam breathed, disappointed in himself.  Was that really all it took?  A gorgeous South African girl spreading her legs for him and suddenly he was putty in her goddamned hands?  God, he was such an idiot.  " _Twenty-fuckin'-five_ ," he ground out, pulling the condom off and dropping it onto the floor without a second thought.

Simone drew back sharply and when he glanced at her, the insult on her face was clear as day.  "What the fuck does that 'ave to do with anything?" she demanded.  

Sam shook his head, dismissively, "Forget it."

"No," Simone snapped.  "No, I won't just _forget it_ ," she sneered, climbing off the bed so she could stare down at him with hard eyes.  "You think - what? - that I'm too young for you?  That I'm some silly, empty-headed little girl?"

"Nope," Sam said, meeting her gaze steadily, "but I do think that over a hundred million is a helluva good reason for you to pay attention to me."

Simone's eyebrows rose, lips parting as she was, momentarily, struck speechless.  "You think I'm sleeping with you for the money that you don't even fucking 'ave?"  One hand landed on her hip, the other coming up to point accusingly at him.  "Let me tell you something, Samuel _fucking_ Drake, you are poorer than dirt.  You have nothing going for you right now aside from your looks, your charm, and your wit, and those were the three things that had me coming here tonight.  I don't need that stupid fucking treasure and I don't need your--"

Sam sighed, "Simone--"

"No!" she shouted.  "Let me bloody finish!"

He lifted both hands, disrupting the stream of smoke and causing it to dissipate into the air.  "Fine," he relented, his voice hard.  "Finish, then."

"I don't need your bullshit and I don't need your pretend money!"  She stomped away from him, gathering up the meager clothes she'd been wearing when she'd first come to his door.  "I was looking for a good time, a good _fuck_ , and I thought I'd found that in you.  If you don't want it," she opened the front door, pausing on the threshold to glare back at him, "then fuck you!"

  
And with that she left, slamming the door behind her and leaving him alone with a smoldering cigarette, an unopened bottle of scotch, and two used condoms.  Oh, and of course, his looks, charm, and wit - none of which seemed to be doing him much good right then.


	3. Another Little Bite

Maybe he had a tapeworm?  That could be a plausible explanation for why, no matter how much or how often Sam ate, his stomach was growling again within an hour, right?  Really, he wouldn't be surprised; it wasn't like the food in prison had been FDA approved.  

Either way, that persistent hunger made sleeping, which was a near insurmountable task to begin with, even more difficult.  Often times, the box of biscuits he kept in his cottage was enough to tide him over until morning, but then there were other times when he was craving something a bit more substantial, which led to late night treks up to the main castle to raid the kitchen.  And the kitchen was always well-stocked.  Nadine may not have had her _entire_ army here on site, but there were enough of them that feeding them was a challenge - a challenge that Rafe's checkbook was up for.  

The food itself was a blessed mix of everything, from more traditional Scottish fare, like haggis and shortbread cookies, to things like sliced ham and other sandwich fixings - which was exactly what Sam was constructing when Simone's familiar laughter echoed through the hallway.  

His reaction to the noise was embarrassingly visceral, a jolt of panic that threaded down through his belly.  Futilely, his eyes darted around the room with its gleaming stainless steel and polished floors but there was no escape, unless . . . his eyes went to the window, set high into the wall and certainly not easy to wiggle out of, but--

"Oh.  Hello."

But it was too late.  

Sam turned back to the doorway, sandwich held awkwardly in one hand, and found Simone standing there on the threshold.  She looked incredible, dressed in a purple tank top and what the internet had kindly informed him were 'yoga pants' - they definitely lived up to the hype, by the way - and her face flushed with exertion.  Her voluminous hair was semi-tamed by an elastic, wayward curls having escaped only to be captured again by the sweat glistening on her skin.  

Sam offered her a nod and a tight smile, his free hand coming up in a little wave.  "Hey," he returned.  

There was a bottle of water in her hand and, looming over her shoulder, a huge tattooed guy wearing a Shoreline tee.  "Sergei," she said, stepping lightly into the kitchen.  There were pink and black running sneakers on her feet.  "Have you met Sam Drake yet?"

Sergei followed after her a scant step behind, like a wall of sweaty muscle, but his eyes were on Sam as Simone began opening and closing cabinets.  "You're the expert, yeah?" he asked.

The mercenary’s accent was faint, Russian by way of somewhere else, but Sam couldn’t quite place it.  “So I’ve been told,” he answered with a nonchalant shrug.  He wasn’t comfortable around the Shoreline guys, he’d found, and their immediate presence tended to get his hackles up even if they were being nothing but polite.  Too many years in prison, surrounded by men who would sell you out for a couple of smokes or try to pound your face in for looking at them wrong.

Sergei wasn’t looking at him wrong though, in fact, he was barely looking at him at all; no, he was following Simone’s lead, searching for food to replenish the energy they’d both worked off by jogging or whatever.  But for all the attention Sergei wasn’t paying him, Simone was making up for.  She kept glancing at him over her shoulder, side-eying him as she wrapped her hand around a protein bar, but when she turned to lean back against the counter, her gaze was direct and challenging.  “How goes the search, then?”

Sam shrugged and leaned back against the counter opposite her.  “It’s going,” he answered vaguely.  He took a bite of his sandwich, his own gaze just as direct as he chewed.

And in the stretch of silence that followed, Sergei turned to glance back and forth between the two of them, obviously aware of the elephant that had made the kitchen it's home.  “Okay,” he said, taking his own protein bar and heading toward the door.  “I’m just going to . . . yeah, good night.”

Sergei retreated, leaving the two alone in the expansive kitchen, both watching each other warily over their respective meals.  Sam felt bad for what he’d accused her of the other night; it hadn’t been fair of him to say but he’d never been very good at apologies so the silence just continued, pregnant with unspoken words.  Funny enough, Simone hadn't struck him as the patient type, but she seemed quite willing to let that awkward silence stretch and it was Sam who broke first, setting his sandwich down with a sigh.  “Simone,” he started, “About the other night . . .”

“Yeah?”  One neatly plucked eyebrow rose expectantly and she crumpled the protein bar wrapper in her hand in a motion that was surprisingly hostile.  “The night where you accused me of being a gold digger?  Is that the night we’re talking 'bout?”

“Ah . . .”  His head tipped, one eye squinting closed.  Gold digger?  It was a term he wasn’t familiar with, but the context clues were enough for him to get the gist.  It might have even been amusing, considering why they were both in this country, if it had come up in another way.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I guess so,” he admitted.  

Shit, he hadn’t been good at this sort of thing even before thirteen years of prison!  It had been much easier to just cut it off and move on rather than trying to patch things up and that had been his intention with Simone, mostly.  But now here he was, faced with her accusing stare and searching for words to try and make it . . . right?  Was it even possible?  She hadn’t walked away yet though, so that had to mean something, he figured.

“I shouldn’t’ve said what I did.”  The words came out in a mumble, his eyes dipping away because he couldn’t bear to see the reaction that was sure to cross her face.  “I made some assumptions and I guess maybe they were wrong?”

“Sure as fuck were,” she snapped, and he glanced up to find her arms crossed, the wrapper still balled up in one fist.  “I’m not here for the treasure, Sam,” she continued.  “This is a job that I’m getting paid for and when I’m done, I’ll go back to my little house in Durban, swim in the ocean, run on the beach, and wait for the next one to come along.”  

Sam swallowed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he tried to sort out his thoughts and feelings.  He wasn’t quite sure where she was going with this and it had him off-balance.  Not that his balance had been particularly good lately; readjusting to the real world wasn’t easy.

When she continued, her tone had softened just a bit, the hard edges smoothing from her posture, “Sam, I wasn’t kidding when I said that I didn’t need your money.  I have everything that I want right now.  Believe me, I'm doing _just fine_.”

“So,” he ventured, eyes flicking up to her face again, “this really was just fucking?”

Simone nodded.  “Yeah.”  Then she shrugged, “What can I say?  I mean, you’ve got a big dick and, well, you may need to work the rust off but you seem to know how to use it.”  

Sam ran a hand over his jaw, trying to hide the smirk that crossed his face, “You sure know how to compliment a guy.”

At that, she smiled and pushed away from the counter, “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t ever want to talk to you.”  She took a few steps closer, and Sam found his gaze drawn downward to the curve of her hips under those incredibly tight pants.  “I just don’t want you analyzing every single word outta my mouth, thinking I ‘ave some ulterior motive.”

“Yeah, alright.  That’s fair,” Sam answered as she reached him, one hand coming up to snake under the hem of his shirt and smooth over his side.  She was forgiving him - and kissing him - and Sam couldn’t help but think that it was too easy, that there was a catch.  But maybe not?  They were just fuck buddies, after all, with no real loyalty to each other.  It was about making each other feel good, or selfishly using each other to feel good, to not feel so _alone_ in a foreign country . . .

* * *

 

“Tell me about Boston?”

Sam reached over the edge of the huge claw foot tub and set the lighter and the pack of smokes on the bathroom floor, halfheartedly angling his exhaled smoke toward the open window as his brown eyes settling on the woman sharing the tub with him.  She'd insisted on a bath before any sort of sex, claiming that she was sweaty and probably smelled terrible, and she hadn't listened when he told her that she smelled like heaven.  But a bath . . . well, that was something he could live with.  “What’s there to tell?”

Simone slid further down into the water until the warmth covered her shoulders and her foot crept along the outside of his thigh, “I’ve never been there.”

He shrugged, “It's been a long time since I have.”  He paused, considering.  “Over twenty years.  Not much to tell that you can’t read in a history book; good chowder, dirty water, bunch of rebels threw tea into the harbor once upon a time, sparking a revolution.”  An asshole father who’d never recovered from the war and a mother who loved her sons with all her heart, but never seemed to be happy . . .

She giggled, “Hahbah.  Chowdah.   _Wahtah_.”  

Sam shook his head, amusement sparkling in his eyes as she teased him.  The words sounded funny when she said them, pronounced so purposefully yet tinged with her own South African lilt.  “Yeah, I was never able to shake the accent.”  Nathan had though, and Sam had always attributed it to them leaving Massachusetts when he was still young and the fact that he hadn't spent his time there with a bunch of Southie criminals.

“That’s okay,” Simone said.  “I like it.  Makes you sound . . . unique.”

He reached up to flick the ashes out the window and chuckled at her words.  “ _Unique_.  Maybe here, in Scotland.”  He lifted an eyebrow, “Not so much in Boston.”  

“Guess it’s all relative, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, holding the cigarette out to her in silent offer.

Simone shook her head, waving the gesture away with a hand and sending a spray of droplets across him.  “Nah.  I don’t smoke.”

“What?” Sam laughed.  “You did before.”

Simone shrugged, “It was all to get in your pants.”  Her eyes ran over his neck and shoulders, hungry and hot.  “As soon as I saw you, I wanted to fuck you.”

Sam’s eyebrows twitched upward even as his eyes drifted down, lingering on the hint of bare breasts just barely hidden beneath the surface of the water.  He took one last drag off the cigarette before snuffing it out on the tiles next to the tub and there was a slosh of bathwater as he sat up a bit straighter, wrapping a hand around the foot that had been teasing along his thigh.  “Funny,” he said, levering her foot up out of the water.  Her nail polish had begun to chip, he noticed, gently massaging along the arch and coaxing a pleasured moan from her lips.  “I had almost the exact same thought.”

“Mmm,” she purred, “Great minds an’ all that shit.”  

“Hey,” he said suddenly, on a whim.  “Rafe is flying out tomorrow for . . . I dunno, somewhere.  Miami, I think."  He hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, "Anyway, I was thinking of taking a drive down to the National Library in Edinburgh while he’s gone.  He wanted me to take someone with me when I go.”  He rolled his eyes and gave a sardonic twist of his lips, “Pretty sure he thinks I’m gonna take off on him.”

“Are you?” Simone asked, head tipping with the question.

“Gonna leave?”  He shook his head, fingers working her Achilles tendon.  “Naw.  The idea of finding this treasure was one of the only things that kept me going all those years away."  And, of course, seeing his brother again.  "Working with Rafe is my best chance.  I’m not about to fuck it up.”  It was a lie, a good chunk of it, but sharing bodily fluids was a hell of a lot easier than sharing the truth.  “You should check with Nadine and see if you can play babysitter . . .”

Simone’s eyes lit with excitement and the smile that bloomed on her freckled face was infectious.  “We could totally fuck in the library.”

Sam's hands stilled, eyebrows lifting.  "So is that your thing?" he asked, intrigued by the suggestion.  Was that why she'd taken him to the beach rather than somewhere more private?    "Are you an exhibitionist?"

Her lips pursed and she gave a coy shrug, "Sort of?  I guess it's more like . . . _semi_ public?  I like the thrill of _maybe_ getting caught but I don't really _want_ to be caught, y'know?"

Oh, he _knew_ and his brain was taking this information and running with it, spinning through one scenario after the next - dirty bar bathroom sex, supply closet at the library - and finding his excitement growing with every one.  He had a lot of dry years to make up for, after all.  

Sam's hand ran up her calf and he pressed a kiss to her ankle.  "Yeah, I think we can work with that," he murmured against her skin.  But tonight, they had privacy and he was damn sure going to use it to take his time.  

* * *

 

Simone woke to the soft sound of snoring, eyes blinking open to find a heavy arm slung across her belly, pale against her own skin.  Her gaze followed that arm up to the shoulder it was connected to, with its faint splattering of freckles and less faint mouth-shaped bruise from her own teeth; the sight of it made her smile, satisfied.  Along his ribs and side was a tattoo, a bit faded with age and currently half hidden by his arm, but Simone knew that it was a pin-up girl dressed in rather revealing pirate garb, complete with thigh-high boots and cutlass.  He'd gotten it in Columbia, he'd told her on their second night together.

Sam's face was pressed into the curve of her neck, that little snore vibrating along her collarbone with every inhale and she turned into him, nuzzling into his shoulder and causing that snore to catch in his nose.  "Good morning," she murmured, kissing along the side of his neck.  

"Mmm," he sighed, arm tightening around her waist and pulling her closer.  "Mornin'."  

"You snore," Simone said with a sleepy giggle.  

There was a huff of breath against the side of her neck, the barest of laughs.  "Sorry," he whispered, voice rough.  "M'nose 'as been broken a few times."

Simone smiled, jostling him a bit with her shoulder, "Really?  You can hardly tell."

"Ha," Sam answered, dryly.  

There was a moment of contented silence and, in that moment, Simone felt the very real desire to just stay right there, wrapped in the warmth of Sam's arms.  He wasn't asking for anything from her, just the pleasure of her company, and that was more alluring than she'd ever admit to.  She had responsibilities though, and plans to meet Nadine for breakfast, and she knew better than to keep her sister waiting.  Nadine's time was precious and something earned.

"I should go," Simone said softly and he rolled onto his back to give her room to get up, reaching for his cigarettes in the same motion.  There was another bruise on the meat of his pec, a near perfect set of teeth prints, and she reached out to run the pad of her finger over it as he lit a smoke.  

He gave her a long look that she couldn't read and opened his mouth, then closed it, then nodded and simply said, "Yeah, alright."

It left her wondering what he'd been going to say, but instead of asking and inviting more conversation she climbed from the bed and padded toward the bathroom.  There was an ache between her thighs that would have felt delicious if not for the indecision that settled in the pit of her stomach.  His unspoken words shouldn't have bothered her so much, she should have been able to just _walk away_ like she was so very good at, but curiosity had her mulling over the possibilities.   _What had he been about to say?_ More importantly, why did she _care_?

She left the door open while she peed, listening to the rustle of blankets from the other room, the scrape of crystal against wood as he pulled the ashtray closer, and she sighed and, maybe, lingered a bit longer than necessary there in the bathroom.  She rinsed her mouth with minty Listerine, spent a moment attempting to tame her wild curls before giving up, then analyzed her own battle wounds in the mirror.  There was a hickey just at the base of her throat, purple and eye catching and just a bit sore.  She wished she could have worn it with pride.

The work out clothes she'd been wearing the night before were still lying on the floor near the tub but she passed them by to pull on the plaid button-up Sam had been wearing instead, slipping it on and wrapping herself in the distinctly masculine scent of his skin and deodorant.

"I'm wearing this back to my room," she announced as she exited the bathroom, crossing the cottage and slipping her feet into her sneakers.  

Sam was still in bed, lounging back against the headboard with the sheets bunched in his lap and a smoldering cigarette hanging from his fingers and, for a moment, there was a tiny piece of her that was tempted to just climb back into bed with him.  "As long as you bring it back," he said, eyebrows rising appreciatively at the sight of her.  "I don't have many clothes."

"How 'bout tomorrow morning, when we head down to Edinburgh?" she suggested, making a quick detour to press a lingering kiss to his lips.  "'Cause I'm _not_ missing that trip."

Goodbyes were brief, playful and flirty, and when Simone stepped out of the cottage a few minutes later, the chilly morning air did wonders to help clear her head.  She could do this.  The sun was just beginning to lighten the horizon, creeping up over the choppy ocean water, and she set a brisk pace as she walked up to the castle with her clothes tucked against her belly.

The faint sound of voices reached her ears, drifting from the direction of the kitchen and dining room, but she managed to make her way up the stairs without running into anyone.  The door to her room was in sight, just at the end of the hallway, and she made a beeline toward it--

"Simone."

And drew up at the sound of her name rolling off pretty lips.   _Fuck._  "Hey Rafe," she said, turning and pinning him with a smile.  "You're up early."

His eyes ran over her in a deceptively lazy movement, taking in the men's shirt that he without a doubt recognized, and some emotion that she couldn't _quite_ place flickered his face.  Anger?  "You too," he returned, eyes landing on her face again.  "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure," Simone agreed, leading the way toward her room and leaving the door for him to close behind him.  She forced her muscles to uncoil and went through the motions, dropping the clothes into the laundry hamper, toeing her sneakers off her feet, all while Rafe oozed around her room like an oil slick.

"It looks like things are going . . . well," he commented, pausing at the window to peer out at the sunrise.

Again, there was _something_ there in his voice that caught Simone's attention, prompting her to turn and face him, to let her eyes run over his body as she tried to figure out why he seemed so _off_ .  Or at least more off than usual because there was something there, in the set of his shoulders or the tightness around his eyes, that had her immediately on edge.   _More_ on edge than usual, because being alone in a room with Rafe was always just slightly uncomfortable, she'd quickly found.  Under those picture-perfect good looks she was convinced that something wasn't quite _right_.  She'd been wary of him since the minute she'd laid eyes on him and that intuition kept her senses sharp whenever they were in the same room, as if she were locked in a cage with a lion.  The only time she ever felt moderately okay was when Nadine was sharing the space with them.

"He's not going anywhere," Simone said after a moment.  

Rafe's eyes narrowed, his focus sharpening as he turned back to face her completely.  "Did he say that?"

Simone shrugged, "Basically.  He knows you don't trust him but he wants to find the treasure; I don't think he's going anywhere 'til he does."

"Until _we_ do," Rafe corrected.  He was moving then, stepping closer to her like a predator and Simone hated that just those simple movements set her heart to pounding in her chest like cornered prey.  He stopped in front of her, reaching up to pluck at the collar of Sam's shirt, and it took all of her self control to not push his hand away.  He studied the hickey at her throat and she, in turn, studied every minute expression that crossed his face, watching for some sign that he was going to _break_. . .

"That's good though," he said suddenly, fixing her with a smile that could almost be called _charming_ if one didn't know him.  He dropped his hand just as abruptly as those words and turned away from her.  "Let me know if anything changes."  He reached the door, and half turned, adding as an afterthought, "You're doing a great job, Simone."

 


	4. Have a Little Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very very NSFW and mild violence

*Almost thirteen years ago, Panama*

 

"Whatsa matter?" Sam asked, sliding into the seat next to his brother and giving him a rough nudge with his shoulder.  "You nervous or something?"

Nathan's eyes were just a bit glassy when he lifted them from his beer, his shoulder rolling in a shrug.  "No," he lied, then shook his head.  "I mean, maybe a bit.  I just . . . I have a bad feeling about this."  

Sam studied him critically, brown eyes narrowing just a touch and his hand tightening around his beer.  "Is this about what Victor said?" he asked, then scoffed.  "Jesus Nathan, why do you listen to him?"

There was a huffy sigh, then Nathan turned to face him completely.  He didn't have to lower his voice much to keep anyone from overhearing - the cantina was crowded and there was a band playing in the corner - but still he leaned in close, blue eyes intent as they met his older brother's.  "Sam, he had a point," he insisted.  "This is risky."

"Victor always has a point," Sam snapped, "and it _always_ seems to benefit him."

Nathan shook his head, jaw tightening in offense.  "That's bullshit, Sam."

"Is it?" he demanded, leaning back in his chair and draining the last of his beer.  There was a beat of silence between them, and then Sam was leaning forward again, "Listen Nathan, this is our best bet, okay?  Rafe has it all--"

"And that's the other thing, Sam," Nathan interrupted.  Sam followed his line of vision to their rich partner, who was currently at the bar chatting up a pretty brunette.  "You and I, we're solid, but _Rafe--_ "

"Don't do that, Nathan," Sam warned.  "Don't."  He set the empty beer bottle on the scarred wooden table with a dull thump, but the noise did a well enough job of relaying his exhaustion with the topic.  "This is the easiest way to cover our asses.  That tower is on prison property and if we get caught trespassing, we'll be in prison for _real_. . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I know."  Nathan gave another sigh, lapsing into silence as his eyes drifted down to the beer in front of him.  

Sam watched him for a moment, taking in the hunch of his shoulders, the moody pout on his slightly flushed face, and the need to smooth the frown from his brother's brow was strong.  "Nathan," he said, tone softening.  "We're doing this together.  I've got your back, little brother."

Seconds passed as Nathan stared down at his beer bottle but when he glanced at Sam again, he was visibly comforted by his older brother's reassurances.  "I _know_ ," he said again and then, softer, "I know, Sam."

Sam smirked and clapped his brother on the shoulder, "Know what you need?"  He half turned in his seat to flag down the waitress.  "Another beer, to start, and then someone nice and _warm_ to keep you company tonight."  When he turned back to his brother, there was amusement shining there in Nathan's eyes and Sam's smirk stretched into a challenging grin, "How 'bout a bet, little brother?"

* * *

 

Sam's lips were tingling, his vision just a bit soft around the edges, but even still, there was an undeniably proud smile on his face as he watched his younger brother sling an arm around the shoulders of the pretty Panamanian woman sitting beside him and lean in close to murmur into her ear.  She answered his whispered question with a giggle and a nod and Nathan shot his brother a grin and a wink as he rose to his feet and ushered her toward the stairs with a hand on her lower back.

"Don't you owe him twenty bucks now?" Rafe asked, leaning close enough for his upper arm to brush Sam's.    
  
He shrugged and a gave the other man a slightly drunken smile, taking his cigarette between fore and middle finger and blowing a perfect smoke ring.

"You lost your room too," Rafe added.

Sam glanced at him.  "S'alright," he answered.  "He needs the distraction more'an I do."  And it wasn't like he didn't have options.  Brown eyes scanned the room, lingering again on the woman in the clingy navy blue dress at the end of the bar that he'd been making eyes at all evening.  She'd been returning the attention, flirty little smiles here and there--

"I've been buying her drinks all night."

Sam's eyes snapped to Rafe, annoyance flashing across his features. _Of course_ he had.  Because that's just the sort of shit a spoiled rich brat did; lay claim to the prettiest chick in this place by putting in the least amount of effort possible.  "Have you even talked to her?"

Rafe shook his head, indifference settling on his face as he took another swallow of beer.  "She knows I'm interested.  If she is too, then she'll come over and talk to me."

Sam shook his head, irritated by the confidence that permeated those words.  Spoken like a true rich boy, mumbled around the silver spoon that had been stuffed in his mouth at birth and he wondered, perhaps a bit crankily, if Rafe had ever heard the word _no_ in his lifetime.

His attention went back to the woman in question and she was, indeed, eyeing them both up with pursed painted lips but Sam was wary.  She was easily the most attractive woman in this place, second only to that one Nathan had snuck off with, but she'd been there all evening, sitting alone and alternating her booze with glasses of water.  Men had gone over to talk to her but every single one had walked away disappointed.  Something didn't quite add up but Sam was just drunk enough that he wasn't quite able to get his sluggish brain to rise to the challenge of figuring out what it could be.  

So he gave up.  Dropping the cigarette into the swill of his beer, Sam got to his feet, "Gonna go take a leak."  And then, maybe, head upstairs.  He could sleep in the hallway outside his room until Nathan was finished getting his knob polished . . .

And that was his plan when he stepped out of the restroom, bladder blissfully empty and a fresh cigarette between his lips.  His hands were busy filing through the small wad of cash he'd pulled from his wallet, counting out bills as he walked back toward where he'd left Rafe.  He'd throw some money at Rafe for a tip since he'd agreed to pick up the tab and then head upst--

Rafe wasn't alone.  Oh, he was still where Sam had left him, but the seat next to him, the one he'd so recently vacated, had been claimed by the woman in blue from the end of the bar.  She was leaning in close to Rafe, her dark eyes intent on his face as she spoke softly, and everything about her body language betrayed her interest.  

Sam's lip curled.  You know, fuck it, he could pay Rafe back later.  Sam took the cigarette in hand, and started to turn away, but Rafe's voice calling his name carried faintly over the music and he glanced back.

"Sam!" Rafe called again, waving him closer.  

With a sigh, Sam changed direction again, and he couldn't help the hint of swagger in his gait as he approached.  Maybe she'd decide that she wanted someone a little _taller_.  

"Sam, I'd like to introduce you to Jasleen."

Sam drew up next to the pair, eyes running over her approvingly as he offered a charming smile that was little more than a cocky smirk.  "Jasleen."  He offered his hand, "It is _very_ nice to meet you."

" _Hola_ , Sam," she said with a smile.  Her hand was soft, fingernails carefully shaped and painted bright red.

Rafe cleared his throat, "Jasleen came to me with an interesting proposal."  His gaze flickered back to her, as if asking permission to continue, and she gave it with a nod and a sparkle of brown eyes.  

And Sam's curiosity was peaked, one eyebrow arching as he stood next to the table and absently rolled the cigarette between his fingers, looking between the two of them.  Was this about a job?  Not the best timing, really, since he'd prefer to talk business when he wasn't mildly drunk . . .

"It seems," Rafe continued, "that our lovely new friend is looking for a particular sort of . . . _company_ tonight and was wondering if, perhaps, we'd be interested."

There was an embarrassingly long moment of silence as Sam struggled to figure out exactly what his business partner was hinting at but when the meaning, combined with the expectant gaze of Jasleen, clicked in his head, the elder Drake's eyebrows rose.  "Oh," he breathed, " _Oh_ .  Like, _company_ company?"

"Well, we'd have to generously compensate her for her time, of course."

"Ah," Sam said with a nod, realization dawning.  "Of course."  Jasleen was a prostitute.  Well, that made sense, didn't it?  Sure explained why she'd been giving the two of them her attention tonight; she probably had Rafe pegged as 'loaded' the second she'd laid eyes on him.  

Rafe's lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at him over the rim of his beer, one eyebrow twitching upwards as Sam considered.  His eyes ran over Jasleen again, taking in the curves, the ample cleavage that he really just wanted to press his face into, the graceful arch of her calf, and he really wanted to say yes.  He didn't care that she was a prostitute - wasn't like she'd be his first - but he wasn't quite sure about the third part of this equation.  

His eyes went to Rafe.  He had to be okay with the idea, right?  Otherwise he would have just turned her down outright.  Could Sam do it though; could he share with Rafe?  He'd never had a threesome before and, while he would have preferred it be with two women instead, he _was_ willingly going to prison in the morning and celebrating his last night of 'freedom' with some debauchery just seemed appropriate, right?  It didn't mean he'd have to like, make out with Rafe or anything.  And, fuck, it could be worse!  At least Rafe was _pretty_.  

"Yeah," Sam said with a decisive nod.  "Yeah, why the fuck not?"  It would be something to cross off his Bucket List, right?

* * *

 

Jasleen tasted like starfruit and her skin was soft as a peach.  And, maybe, Sam was a bit hungry after drinking his dinner tonight.  But food was a distant worry, easily pushed aside in favor of other, more compelling, sensations that had his slightly inebriated brain easily distracted - like the bounce of a deliciously rounded ass under his hands, the sweet velvety warmth of her pussy as he pounded into her from behind.  And those sensations made it easy to mostly ignore the fact that, while he was fucking her, she was also deepthroating Rafe's cock.  

Maybe _ignore_ wasn't the right word, because watching her actions certainly added to the appeal of his own, but if he didn't make eye contact with Rafe, then it was easy to pretend that the other man's dick was just a sexy prop in a vigorous lovemaking session.  

It had been working quite well, this strange sort of willful ignorance, right up until Sam realized that he was being watched.  His eyes flicked up from where they'd been locked on that junction between his body and Jasleen's and found Rafe's steady, heavy-lidded, gaze on him.  Sam's rhythm faltered, taken aback as their eyes met and a rather perplexing mix of emotions fluttered through his chest.  Why was Rafe looking at him like that?  Jasleen was putting on a much better show, yet Rafe's attention was wholly on _Sam_.

Toxic masculinity told him to be disgusted, to lash out at that handsome - and way too symmetrical - face, but instead, Sam could only find himself staring back.  Was Rafe attracted to him?  Is that why he'd been okay with this whole threesome idea?  Was Rafe gay?  Was . . . _he_ gay for not putting a stop to this?

The thoughts twisted and turned through his head like a hurricane, distracting enough that his thrusts had slowed to almost nothing and Jasleen noticed.  She allowed Rafe's cock to slip from her mouth, glancing back over her shoulder to throw him an annoyed glance.  " _¿Por qué te detienes?_ "

The question had Sam mumbling an apology, but she was ignoring him, rattling off a long string of Spanish instead and his eyebrows rose in response.  "Ah . . ."

"What did she say?" Rafe asked.  His Spanish was spotty at best and Sam wasn't surprised that he hadn't caught her words.  

Sam hesitated, one hand still splayed across Jasleen's lower back, but when he translated, all Rafe did was nod in easy acceptance and, after a moment's contemplation, Sam found himself shrugging in agreement as well.  

Which is how they ended up with Rafe on his back and Jasleen enthusiastically lowering herself onto him.  Sam reached eagerly for her skin, grabbing a handful of her ass and trying not to focus too much on the brush of Rafe's hairy thigh against his own as he moved up behind her and positioned himself at the entrance of her already claimed pussy.  " _¿Estás listo?_ " he asked as she paused her movements, back arching to give him better access.  

" _Sí.  Hazlo_ ," she moaned.

He took it slow, holding the condom in place as he worked himself into her inch by inch, giving her time to adjust and stretch to accommodate both himself and Rafe.  The confident way she rolled her hips to make his task easier, to swallow them both up, had Sam's mildly drunk head spinning.  She sure as hell knew what she was doing.  And she did it _well_ .  Jasleen was giving them the ride of their lives and she _knew_ it.

She played them both like well tuned pianos, every part of her body given like a gift for their pleasure, and she made a damn good show of enjoying all of their ministrations.   She met every thrust with encouraging words or a throaty moan, adding to the sensations that Sam had quickly lost himself in.  

But every time Sam glanced at him, Rafe was watching him.  At first, it would pull him out of the moment, but at some point, Sam found that it wasn't bothering him anymore.  They were barely touching each other, yet the eye contact was far more intimate than any exchange either of them had had, thus far, with the woman sandwiched between them.  Yes, Jasleen was an active participant in their activities, but more than that, she was like a bridge being constructed between them, bringing them closer in ways that Sam never would have allowed himself to even imagine.

What happened here, tonight, in Rafe's rented room would stay here - Sam would make damn sure of that - and he stopping fighting it, instead allowing himself to be swept up in the moment.  Swept up and _away_ and when, during a change of positions, Rafe's hand closed around his shaft, Sam didn't stop the other man from lowering his head, slipping the condom off, and taking him in his mouth.  He could question his sexuality later, when he wasn't lost in mindless pleasure and rushing toward the peak of climax, but for now, all he could do was clutch desperately at his business partner's head and, with a string of dirty curses falling from his lips, he came in Rafe's mouth.

The aftershocks of his orgasm prickled his sweaty skin with goosebumps and Sam felt the fog in his mind begin to lift as he settled back on his heels to watch as Jasleen, with a finger buried up inside Rafe, sucked the other man off.  And something passed between he and Rafe as their eyes met over her bobbing head, some sort of wordless moment that broke down barriers even further between the rich playboy and the wandering thief.  Sam found himself studying Rafe, taking in that lean chest and those trim abs and his hands itched to touch him, to just run his fingertips over the other man's skin . . .

Was it curiosity?  Attraction?  His brain balked at the very idea of being attracted to Rafe.  He didn't like guys!  He liked tits and curves and soft, hairless, hands!  Right?   _Right?!_  It was confusing and uncomfortable to think about and Sam wasn't sober enough to give such questions the attention they deserved.  So he pulled away, both emotionally and physically, breaking the eye contact and tearing his gaze away from the scene before him.  He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching down to pull his cigarettes from his hastily discarded jeans and flipping open his lighter.

"Get out."

At first, Sam thought Rafe was talking to him and he paused just before lighting the cigarette, half turning to find Rafe shoving Jasleen away from him.  She protested and reached for him again, but her words were useless; not only did Rafe have no idea what she was saying, but he obviously didn't care much either.

"I said _get out!_ " he roared, temper flaring red hot.  He gave her another shove that sent her tumbling straight over the side of the bed and her head cracked against the side table on her way down.

"Holy shit!" Sam snapped, dropping both the cigarette and the lighter as he jumped to his feet and threw Rafe a glare.  "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  

Rafe sneered in response and he climbed off the bed, "Pay her and get her the fuck out of here."  He fired the words over his shoulder as he stomped toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Sam shook his head in disgust, circling around the bed to check on Jasleen, but she crawled away from him with one hand pressed against the back of her head and her pretty face twisted up in a mix of anger and fear.  

"Oh, no no no," Sam said quickly, hands coming up.  "I won't hurt you," he assured her, switching smoothly to Spanish.  "I just want to make sure you're okay . . ."

"I'm fine!" Jasleen spat, eyes going to the closed bathroom door as she climbed to her feet, hands scrambling to gather up her clothes.  "Your boyfriend is a fucking asshole!"

"He's not--" Sam objected, shaking his head.  "I mean, yeah, he's an asshole, but he's not my . . ."  

Jasleen's brown eyes went to his face, " _I don't care._ "  Her hand snapped out, palm up.  "Where's my money?"

Sam sighed.  "Yeah, okay."   

Jasleen's company hadn't come cheap and Sam found his wallet almost empty by the time he closed the door behind her with an awkward apology and an even more awkward _thank you_.  Well, that was a fucking disaster, he reflected, turning from the door and surveying the room.  His clothes and Rafe's were strewn across the floor, the blankets stripped from the bed to join them, and there was a condom clinging for dear life to the corner of the mattress.  The condom that Rafe had stripped off of him--

Sam shook his head, eyes going to the closed bathroom door as the sound of the shower filtered through and apprehension rolled through him, leaving him feeling vaguely sick to his stomach.  He had no idea what he was supposed to do next; talk to Rafe?  Leave?  

To keep his hands busy, Sam finally lit his cigarette and then began picking up, pulling his own clothes on and then fixing the bed.  Rafe's clothes were folded and set on the chair by the window, the condom dropped into the trash, and at some point during the pick up the shower had turned off.

With the room now picked up, Sam found himself in the same exact boat he'd been in only minutes before.   _Now what?_  

He'd just made up his mind to head back to his and Nathan's room to hopefully get some sleep when the bathroom door opened and Rafe appeared, wrapped in a plush robe, his hair combed back from his face.  He strolled into the room as if everything were normal, as if the two of them hadn't just double-teamed a prostitute, as if he hadn't gulped down Sam's cum barely twenty minutes prior, as if he hadn't _physically assaulted_ a woman in a fit of anger that made absolutely no sense, and it left Sam shifting his weight from one foot to the other and craving another cigarette if only for something to do with his hands.

"So," Sam ventured, eyes sweeping around the room in an attempt to look anywhere but at Rafe.  "Ah, about . . . _that_ \--"

"It happened," Rafe interrupted, matter-of-factly.

His tone had Sam's eyes settling on him again, annoyance bubbling up in his chest.  How could he be so fucking dismissive of this?  What had just happened between them completely redefined their relationship . . . or did it?  Maybe this was Rafe's way of telling him that _nothing_ had changed and that they were both supposed to forget that it had ever happened?

Rafe shrugged then, one eyebrow twitching upward, "I wouldn't mind it happening again but if you need that female buffer then it'll have to wait until _after_ we get out of prison."

And Sam found himself without words.  There was so much about this guy that he disliked, from that smug and careless smirk to the way he'd lashed out at poor Jasleen without provocation, yet Sam couldn't deny that from the moment they'd met, he and Rafe had just sort of _clicked_ .  It hadn't made any sense, really; they couldn't have been any more different but there had been a draw there.  And maybe it was because of that, that Sam found himself actually _considering_ what Rafe was saying.  Did he want to do it again?

"I don't . . ." Sam started, running a hand over his jaw in an outward show of his confusion.  "I don't know."

Rafe nodded.  "I understand."  He stepped closer and peered up at Sam, his hand coming up and he made a show of smoothing a wrinkle out of the shoulder of his teeshirt.  

The movement, the warmth of his hand across Sam's pec, was oddly distracting for the taller man and all of his typical confidence and bravado - had this been a woman, he wouldn't have hesitated to turn on the charm - seemed to have gone straight out the window.  Rafe had been steering this boat all night and Sam hadn't been able to do anything but hold on for the ride.

"How about you take some time to think about it?" Rafe suggested, meeting his eyes.  "Let's see where this prison lead takes us; we can revisit this when we're free men once again."

Now it was Sam's turn to nod, a bit dumbly perhaps.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I need some time."  And some fresh air.  And a fucking cigarette.  He stepped back, toward the door, as the sudden need to escape became overwhelming.  "I'll catch ya in the morning."  

"We meet Vargas at seven," Rafe called after him.  "Don't be late!"


	5. Pull Yourself Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildy NSFW  
> Again, I've never been to Edinburgh, so all mistakes can be blamed on Google. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank the few people who are reading this. You're making the time I sink into it worth it. If you'd like to find me on tumblr I'm xturtletrashx and I love chatting and being generally silly. If you start following me over there, let me know that you came from AO3! <3

"I'm not sure what you think you're going to find; your brother already scoured that library."  Rafe's eyes lifted from the open suitcase laid out on the bed in front of him, eyebrows rising as he added with a pointed glance, "And don't light that cigarette in here."

Sam paused mid-motion, lighter hovering just in front of his face as he gave Rafe a long look over the flame.  "Yeah, over a decade ago," he said around the cigarette.  He snapped the lighter closed and reached up to take the cigarette from his mouth, tucking it behind the shell of his ear instead.  "Who knows what's circulated into their collections in that time?"  And Nathan had been _grieving_.  His head wouldn't have been in the game back then; Sam knew that for a fact.  

Rafe frowned down at the piles of neatly folded clothes, silently considering, "I'd like to go with you.  Why don't you wait until I get back?  I'll only be a few days . . ."

When Sam had arrived here in Scotland, Rafe hadn't wasted any time filling him in on everything he and Nathan had found while combing the Cathedral.  Sam had gone through it all numerous times over the last couple of weeks and he was pretty sure he had it all committed to memory at this point.  So, logic said that it was time to cast a wider net.  And if, in the process, that wider net just happened to catch a certain red-haired firecracker, well he wouldn't be _upset_.  

Sam shrugged in answer, absently fiddling with the lighter in his hand.   _Snap-snap-snap_ , he flicked it open and closed.  "It'll give me something to do."  

"Or you could come with me."

The suggestion caught him off guard, the lighter closing with one final click, and Sam had no hope of stopping the surprise that took up residence on his features.  Up until that moment, not one single word had been mentioned about the night before they'd gone to prison.  Thirteen years later and Rafe had met him at the gates of the prison, they'd shaken hands, he'd been clapped on the shoulder in that irritating way that Rafe was so fond of, they'd spoken of his time in prison, the search for Avery's treasure, but not _once_ had their night together - and Rafe's subsequent proposition - been brought up.

Sam's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. "To, uh, Miami?" he asked, needing clarification.  Maybe he was reading this wrong?

Rafe gave a nonchalant shrug, hands busy folding a pair of jeans.  "It'll be hot and you'd have to fend for yourself while I'm in meetings," he glanced up, a flicker of brown speckled eyes in Sam's direction, "but I can get another ticket . . ."

For a heartbeat, all Sam could do was stare at the other man and wonder if he was fucking delusional.  Did he honestly think that after everything that had happened, Sam was just going to fall into his arms?  That they were going to pick back up at the weird place they'd left things before the Panama job and - _what?_ \- live happily ever after?

Rafe's motions slowed as he sensed Sam's sudden shift in mood, his eyes on the t-shirt he was packing neatly into the suitcase, but when the silence carried on for too long, he glanced up.  And his own face closed down, his voice cold when he broke the silence.  "You had almost thirteen years to think about it, Samuel.  My offer still stands."

Sam's mouth dropped open, an incredulous breath of a laugh escaping.  "Are you serious?"

"Well--"

" _Are you fucking serious?_ " Sam demanded, voice rising as he took a hostile step closer.  "Rafe, you _killed_ Vargas--"

Rafe's face darkened, annoyed at being interrupted and he repaid the favor in kind.  "Oh come on!  Like you cared at all about that piece of shi--"

"No, I didn't, but you know what I do care about?"  Driven by anger, Sam punctuated his point by gesturing to himself.  " _My_ life.  And the fact that I _haven't had one_ for the last thirteen years because you _killed_ that piece of shit!"  

"He was a liability," Rafe protested lightly, hands coming up in a hapless gesture.

That hint of amusement there in Rafe's voice, the fact that he could be so infuriatingly nonchalant over the consequences of his actions and how they had affected those around him, had the threads of Sam's temper unraveling at a startling rate.  It brought him back years ago, to the two of them standing in a messy hotel room after Sam had sent a prostitute on her way with a wad of cash and a nasty bump on her head.  He'd never been able to understand Rafe's selfishness, his complete disregard of others, and it set Sam's blood to boiling, rage building within him as he glared at Rafe.  

The huge bed with its carved posts separated them, but it was an awkward barrier that Sam couldn't quite bring himself to cross, so instead he grabbed the thing nearest to his hand - a decorative vase on the bedside table - and threw it.

Rafe ducked, but just half a second too late, and the heavy porcelain caught his forehead and shattered, sending him stumbling back a step.  "Fuck!" he shouted, hand coming up to press against his bleeding hairline.  Surprise quickly gave way to anger and he roared, " _What the fuck, Sam?_ "

"Fuck you!" Sam snarled right back, but the majority of his anger had burnt off with the throw.  He just wanted to walk away.

"I'm _bleeding_ , you asshole."

Sam didn't care.  Maybe at one point he would have; maybe if the last thirteen years hadn't happened, but right now, he just _didn't care_.  "Yeah, and I got shot three times.  Big fuckin' deal," he grumbled.  He took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, ignoring Rafe's annoyed growl when he did.  It was either smoke a cig or strangle Rafe and he was going to assume that the other man would prefer the former.  

"Christ Sam," Rafe continued, circling around the bed.  "You know I didn't mean for any of that to happen, right?" he asked, reining in his own anger as he plucked one of the t-shirts from the open suitcase and pressed it against his forehead.  "I had no way of knowing that you weren't going to be walking out of there with us . . ."

Rafe stopped in front of him and Sam glared down at him.  Was that supposed to be an apology?  He put the cigarette between his lips and took a long drag, putting every ounce of his anger, his hurt and his regret, into the glare he fixed Rafe with.  Then, on a whim, he blew that lungful of smoke into Rafe's face.

There was a twitch in Rafe's jaw as his eyes closed and his teeth clenched and, absently, Sam wondered if he'd gone too far and if Rafe was going to take a swing at him.  Again, though, he had trouble mustering up the ability to care, so he took it one step further and, without taking his eyes from Rafe's face, leaned over and snuffed the cigarette out on those neatly folded jeans.

The eruption that Sam expected didn't come though, and instead Rafe swallowed back his anger, cleared his throat, and said evenly, "If you think going to Edinburgh is worth the trip, then by all means, feel free to go."

"Thanks for the permission," Sam ground out, shoving past the shorter man and heading for the door.  

"Wait."

Sam paused, his hand on the doorknob, "What?"

"For what it's worth, Sam," Rafe said softly, "I am sorry about what happened."

Before he could stop himself, Sam glanced back over his shoulder, a confusing mix of emotions tumbling through him as he weighed the sincerity of those words.  He wished he could believe it; wished he could move on and forgive for half a lifetime lost but instead, all he managed was a listless _have a good trip_ before leaving the room.

* * *

 

"Everything in this country is grey and brown," Simone complained as she stared out the window at the passing buildings.  "I feel like I'm in a black and white movie."

Sam smirked, eyes drifting from the road to the woman in the passenger's seat of the Jeep, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard and her copper curls catching in the wind drifting through the open window.  She wore fatigues again, but there was a pair of neon pink studs in her ears and her toes had been repainted to match.  "It's not so bad," he commented, though it was a big difference from colorful Cartagena or the bright lights of Panama.  In his opinion, Edinburgh was beautiful, if a bit drab at first glance, with occasional splashes of color that caught the eye like a firefly in the darkness - a teal colored door here and a red and yellow double-decker bus there.

"It's like Kansas before the tornado," she continued, sending him a smile.  "Who do we have to drop a house on t'get some color?"

"Rafe," Sam quipped without hesitation and was gifted with a delighted laugh from his company.  

"Ding dong, the witch is dead, yeah?"

Sam laughed and it was wasn't his typical chuckle, but rather the sort of deep belly laugh that couldn't be faked.  It was the type of laugh that brought back memories of drunken nights joking with his brother and successful pranks resulting in a surly Victor.  His laughter invoked another round of infectious giggling from Simone and soon enough the two were favoring aching sides.  It felt _good_ to laugh like that and Sam wasn't even sure he could remember the last time he'd laughed until he was out of breath and his cheeks hurt.  Definitely not since getting out of prison and before that . . . well, that wasn't something he was going to think about now, not when Simone's full attention was on him.

"What?" he asked, glancing at her.  She'd turned in her seat at some point during the laughter, drawing her knee up and wrapping an arm around it, and was now watching him with an expression on her face that he couldn't quite place.  There was a softness there in her smile, a light in her eyes that he didn't want to read too deeply into, so he asked again, with another laugh, " _What?_ "

"I like your laugh," she admitted, scooting across the seat.  She reached up, finger brushing along the crows feet next to his eye, "And I like these lines here."

He snorted a laugh as the GPS gave a merry alert that their destination was on the left.  "Really?" he asked, glancing at her again as he pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and put the Jeep in park.  "I guess they keep my face from being _boring_ , right?"

"Shut up."  Simone gave his shoulder a playful nudge, but there was nothing but seriousness there on her face and Sam found himself unable to look away.  "You don't have a boring face," she told him.  "It's very handsome."  She reached up once again to run the tip of her finger down his nose and then back up.  "And things like this?  This bump 'ere.  Just adds character.  You 'ave a face that tells a story."

"What sort of story?" he couldn't help but ask, voice low and just a bit rough.  He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her look so somber and he was a bit scared of what she'd say next.

Simone blinked those big brown eyes, her hand coming to cup his cheek, and then she leaned in to place a soft kiss at the corner of his lips.  "A sad one," she whispered back.  "Filled with loss and raw deals."

Sam would be embarrassed to admit to how her words affected him; how emotion, deep and profound, settled in his chest like an anchor and completely stole his ability to form words.  Either he was just that easy to read or she was far more perceptive than he'd been giving her credit for and he wasn't sure which he prefered.  

"C'mon," she said suddenly, her face breaking into a bright grin as she unapologetically shattered the moment.  "Let's go see what sorta reservations the Wicked Witch of the East hooked us up with!"

* * *

 

"Two rooms?" Simone asked, one hand landing on her hip as she shook her head at the concierge.  "No, there must be some mistake . . ."

"Simone--" Sam started, but she brushed aside his protest with a wave of one hand.

"See," she said, sidling closer to him and wrapping an arm around Sam's waist as she spoke to the man behind the desk.  "We're newlyweds.  Just married, yeah?"

_Newlyweds?!_  Sam's eyes darted to Simone, an unsure smile pulling at the corners of his lips as she glanced up at him with a dreamy sort of smile.  "Yeah," he agreed quickly.  "This is our honeymoon.  My idiot best man must've screwed up the reservations.  Check it again?"

With pursed lips, the concierge reluctantly glanced down at the computer screen again.  "Reservation for Drake," he said.  "Two nights, charged to the account of one Rafe Adler.  One classic room, one penthouse . . ."

Simone shook her head, adamantly, " _No_ , it was supposed to be the honeymoon package, the," she waved a frustrated hand, doing a rather admirable impression of a flustered bride whose honeymoon was being positively _ruined_ , "what was it called again?"

"The Happily Ever After?" the concierge politely offered.  

Simone's face lit, "Yes!  That was it!"  She fastened elated eyes on Sam, "The Happily Ever After!  And he said he reserved the biggest room, you remember love?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a fervent nod.  "It had, uh, the big tub and bed and . . . stuff."

"I'm very sorry, Mr. and . . . _Mrs_. Drake, but the Owner's Residence has already been booked for the next three nights . . ."

Simone gave a huffy sigh, her eyes flicking up to Sam's face again.  "What do you want to do?" she asked, absently smoothing the collar of his jacket.  "Should we just take whichever room they 'ave open or should we try somewhere else?"

"Maybe you'd just like to take the penthouse?" the concierge chimed in before Sam could say a word.  "It has quite a large bathtub, as well.  And I can put the money from the other reserved room toward the Happily Ever After package."

Simone's eyes positively lit.  "That would be wonderful!"

Ten minutes later, Sam was pressing a tip into the bellboy's hand and as soon as the door clicked behind him, he turned to pin his lovely _wife_ with a grin.  "Newlyweds?" he asked with a laugh.  

Simone paused her inspection of the room, turning in the doorway of the bathroom to throw a grin over her shoulder.  "Why not?" she asked with a shrug.  "Now we'll get champagne and chocolates and all that other shit!"  She turned to saunter toward him, putting a little extra sway in her step, "And no one will question all the _moaning_ coming from our room, 'cause that's what newlyweds do on their honeymoon, right?  They _fuck_."

"That," he said, stepping forward to meet her and slipping his arms around her waist, "is rather brilliant, actually."

"I thought so," Simone laughed.  She rose up on tiptoes to place nibbling kisses along his throat, her hands pulling eagerly at his clothes.  "I want you to fuck me right here against this wall," she demanded, "then I want you to take me out dancing."

"Dancing?" Sam repeated, pulling back just a bit to blink hazel-brown eyes at her.  God, her lips were just begging to be kissed.  "Like, at a club?"

"Mhm," she answered, shoving the jacket off his shoulders.  "I want drinks and music."

Well, that didn't sound _at all_ appealing and, not for the first time, Sam was reminded of how very young Simone was.  Dance clubs could be found anywhere; he'd much rather spend the evening exploring the city . . .

Her hands tugged at the button of his jeans and she went to her knees in front of him, dragging hungry kisses low across his belly and, really, if she wanted to hit up a club for a while, who was he to deny her that?  He could suck it up and deal with shitty techno and strobe lights for a while, right?  "Oh god," he sighed as she took him in her mouth.  "Yeah."  Her eyes lifted, meeting his gaze as she swallowed him up.   _How could he say no?_  "Yeah, dancin' it is."


	6. The Color of her Eyes

_ _

_I'm not dancing._

How many times had Sam said those words tonight?  Dozens, maybe?  Enough for them to have lost their meaning, both individually and strung together; enough for them to be particularly _gamey_ as he was forced to eat them.  Because no matter how many times he'd said them, somehow he'd still ended up _here_ , amongst a sea of writhing bodies and with one particular one pressed against him.

Simone's dress was tight, the knit fabric dyed a bright purple with a bold blue pattern, and short enough that his wandering hands had quickly discovered she'd decided to go commando underneath.  To avoid panty lines, she'd kindly informed him, slinging her arms around his neck and leaning in close to be heard over the thumping music.  Her lips had brushed the curve of his ear with the words, sending tiny zings of pleasure through his belly, and effectively chasing away any further reluctance to be on that dancefloor.

Minutes - _hours?_ \- had passed unnoticed, thoroughly consumed as he was by the woman in his arms, under his lips and hands, their movements spurred onward by the thumping music and when they finally stumbled out of the club on unsteady legs, the moon was slung low in the sky.  It cast its glow over the blocky National Library, where after tonight, the majority of their visit would be spent.

This club hadn't been chosen on a whim, with its location providing the perfect excuse to . . . well, do a little _recon_ , just in case.  So they'd arrived at the club early, gotten a bite to eat, and spent some time casing the building.  Eventually, Simone had gotten bored and dragged him into the club.

"I'm starvin'!" she announced, reaching out to wrap her arm around his and pull herself in against his side.  Her skin was shiny with sweat, cheeks flushed with exertion and her make-up smudged under her eyes, and Sam was sure that he'd never seen her look quite so alive - so _beautiful_ \- as she did right then.  "And my feet," she continued, using her grip on him to steady herself as she pulled off first one heel and then the other, "are _killing_ me."

"You're not up to walking back to the hotel, then?" Sam asked as they started toward the intersection.

Simone grinned up at him, "I never said that.  You mentioned that you wanted to explore, yeah?"

Sam glanced at her from the corner of his eye, surprised by her words.  He'd thought she hadn't been listening when he'd casually mentioned his interest in seeing the city, chatting away as she had been over a bacon-and-caramelized-onion topped burger.  She'd barely acknowledged he'd spoken, her attention seized by the football game on the TV across the bar, and she'd launched into a lengthy discourse on which team of the two she preferred.  

"What?" Simone asked, nudging him with an elbow.

And Sam realized that he was staring at her a bit, so he shook his head and said with a smirk,  "Nuthin'."

Simone made a show of rolling her eyes, but she didn't press him, instead wiggling her hand so the shoes hooked on her fingers knocked lightly together.  "Now that these are off my feet, let's see what we can find."

Sam gave her an amused snort, "You planning on walking barefoot through downtown Edinburgh?  You know we can get a taxi . . ."

"How bout this," Simone started, "if the goin' gets rough, I'll just put my shoes back on, yeah?"

His smile was sly around the butt of cig he was lighting, "Alright."  He inhaled deeply. "It's a deal then."

They set a leisurely pace, making their way down the street in the general direction of their hotel.  The streets were pretty quiet but the few people they passed seemed nice enough, returning their nods with their own greetings.  "This way," Sam prompted, and they trotted across the street to take a left.

"Victoria Street," Simone announced, reading the sign.  "This isn't the way we came."

"Well," Sam said, eyes fixed on the bend in the road ahead.  "All roads lead somewhere, right?"

"'Cept for dead ends," Simone argued lightly, following up the words by sticking her tongue out at him.

They were both cooling down now, sweat drying and bringing with it a chill that had goosebumps popping up, and Simone sidled in a little closer.  "You cold?" Sam asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"A bit," she admitted with a small shrug.  "This must be a big difference from Panama."

"Heh, yeah," Sam chuckled.  "South Africa is warm too though."

"Mhmm," Simone hummed, wrapping her own arm around his waist.  "We're like a couple of tropical fish thrown into the wrong ocean.  It's-- _oh!_ "

Her small gasp brought a smile to Sam's lips and he watched her face as they drew to a stop, her eyes widening and an enchanted smile crossing her features.  

In his very limited experience, it didn't seem often that Simone was struck speechless but she didn't say a word as she took in all of the brightly colored shops lining the street.  There were a series of archways ahead on the right with shop doors nestled in each opening; they were eye-catching with each shops' arches painted a different color - blue, red, a light mint green.  The colors were muted, of course, alternately swallowed up in the darkness and brightly illuminated by streetlights, but that stretch of Victoria Street was like a rainbow compared to what they'd seen so far of the city.  

"You said you wanted color," he said softly, the words murmured into her curls.  

"It's beautiful," she answered, her own voice barely above a whisper.  She looked up at him suddenly, a knowing smile pulling at the corners of her full lips, "You knew this was 'ere, didn't you?"

Sam gave a nonchalant shrug, but there was warmth there in his chest, brought to life by the sparkle in her eyes.  "I might have done a bit of reading here and there," he admitted.  Simone was watching him, and if Sam had to guess he'd say that her expression was somewhere between touched and wary and he wasn't sure what that meant but it had him hesitating as he asked, "Do you like it?"

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as her gaze swept over the colorful buildings again.  "Yeah," she said, after a moment.  "I love it."

* * *

 

They'd taken their time getting back to the hotel, Simone making good on her promise of exploring.  They'd ducked down side streets and through alleyways just for the hell of it, found a gorgeous old church that they'd stopped to snap pictures of, and both made a giggling pit stop to empty their bladders in a small park.  

It had started raining when they were half a mile from the hotel and when they'd made it back to their room, drenched and tired, they'd found candles lit and rose petals strewn across the bed; there was also a small red velvet cake waiting for them - all of it compliments of the Happily Ever After package.  And they couldn't waste it, so they'd warmed each other up with a vigorous fucking before sharing the cake in a tangle of sheets.  

The next day, after a late breakfast, they headed for the library by way of Victoria Street again.  Simone snapped photo after photo, and eventually Sam had asked her what the deal was with her and colors.  

"They remind me that there are good things in the world," she'd answered after a thoughtful beat of silence.  "Color is like light shining through the dark."

Sam hadn't pressed her for more, but that little piece that she'd given had reminded him that she wasn't just a twenty-something searching for the next thrill.  Simone Ross was a highly trained mercenary and had probably seen things in her life to rival Sam's own experiences.  It was a sobering thought, picturing her with a rifle in her hands and a human in the crosshairs, and an image that he often had trouble assigning her when she was dancing with wild abandon, or giggling, or moaning his name.

The rest of the day had been spent pouring over books.  Sam had suggested that maybe she'd want to use the time to explore on her own, but Simone had insisted that she wanted to help him - and Sam was surprised to find that she was actually rather good at the whole research thing.  Unfortunately, their search turned up little in the way of potential leads but it had proved fruitful in a long shoulder massage once Simone reached the end of her attention span.  She'd stood behind him, working her fingers into his muscles and eagerly feeding his need for human contact, and once she'd gotten tired of that, she talked him into a handjob under the table.  

All in all, as it turned out, Simone wasn't the worst 'roommate' Sam had ever had.  She tended to leave her clothes on the floor and never put the cap back on the toothpaste, but she always washed her dishes right away and smelled so much sweeter than any Panamanian inmate he'd ever met.  She was good company in general, always quick with a laugh or a joke to lighten the mood and any misgivings he'd had about her near non-stop chattering had quickly fizzled to nothing.

In fact, by their third day in Edinburgh, Sam found himself relaxing to the sound of her voice.  She often just talked, seemingly about anything and everything, filling the silence with observations or funny little anecdotes and Sam found the background noise far more comforting than the silence of his little cottage in the Highlands.  Often times, he'd tune out her words, but she never seemed to get upset when he didn't answer a question straight away or when he asked her to repeat something because he'd been reading or meandering through the internet.   

". . . so I didn't really _meet_ him until I was eight, just before my mum died--"

Sam's head snapped up and he turned on the couch until he could see Simone in the kitchen, her hands busy chopping vegetables for a salad.  "What?" he asked, the book in his hand momentarily forgotten.

She glanced up at him, eyebrows rising.  "Hmm?"

"What did you say?  Meet who?"

"My dad," Simone clarified, sliding the chopped cucumber off the cutting board and into the bowl of mixed greens.  "I was born in Cape Town; didn't move to Johannesburg until after my mum died when I was eight."  Her smile was small and perhaps a bit self deprecating.  "I remember feeling like a princess when I walked into his house.  It wasn't even that big, it was just so different from where I lived with my mum . . ."

Sam hadn't expected this topic to come up and he sorta wished that he'd been paying more attention to the lead up because his interest was thoroughly captured.  Neither of them had said much about their histories, both quite willing to keep all the personal shit to themselves, but now that Simone was opening up, he found himself setting the book on the coffee table and draping his arm over the back of the couch as he turned to watch her.  "So Nadine is your half sister?" he asked and Simone nodded.

"Our dad had an affair with my mum," she explained.  "It was a short thing, but when she found out she was pregnant, she told him and he brought her into the city for a DNA test after I was born.  He gave 'er money sometimes, mostly it went to her medicine though, because she was sick."

Sam's stomach turned.  "Sick?"

"Yeah, AIDS."  Her tone was matter-of-fact, her body language relaxed as she cut up a tomato and relayed her life story.  "She found out she 'ad it when I was like, three, I think?  Anyway, she told my dad and he paid to 'ave me tested, but I was okay."  The tomatoes went into the bowl.  "So mum must've known she was getting close, because she got in touch with 'im and we went to see him.  By then, Nadine's mum had left 'im."  She waved the knife in a vague gesture, "Divorce, 'alf the money, you know, so he hired a _kinderoppasser_ \- ah, a nanny - and got me caught up on my education, she taught me sums and how to read . . .

"Nadine was Dad's favorite," she admitted, and here there was a hint of emotion, a tightening in her shoulders as she spoke.  "Nadine was good at everything, y'know?  She was so much like him and she was interested in his company . . ."

"And you weren't?"

"No, I was," Simone corrected, eyes on the bowl of homemade dressing as she drizzled it over the salad.  "Just not the business stuff.  Nadine wanted to learn how to run the company but I 'ad no interest in that shit.  I liked the idea of traveling, training."  Her eyes flicked up and she gave him a wink, "Killing."  

Sam's eyebrows twitched up.  "You like that part?"

"Sometimes," she answered with a shrug.  "I'm not just gonna kill someone without a reason but if I have to do it, I'll do it."  

This was turning out to be a very enlightening trip, Sam was beginning to find and he watched Simone with a newfound curiosity as she circled the island and handed him a bowl of salad before climbing over the back of the couch and settling in next to him.  

"Does that bother you?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sam shook his head, shifting through the lettuce with his fork.  "No.  I mean, I just spent the last thirteen years with every sort of criminal you can imagine--"

"I'm not a criminal though," Simone pointed out, crunching into a cucumber slice.  

Sam chuckled, "Guess it depends on your definition."

"Okay," she relented with a laugh.  "So maybe if the circumstances were different then I could end up in prison for my actions."

"It's alright," Sam said, stabbing a piece of lettuce.  "I can't throw stones.  I'm not exactly innocent either."

Simone's chewing slowed, then she burst into a fit of giggles.  "Says that man who just spent thirteen years in _prison_!"

Sam gave a wry smile, "Yeah, well . . ."  He didn't want to talk about his perceived innocence and guilt though - no, he was much more interested in these tidbits that Simone had dropped - so after a moment of quiet while they both ate, he decided to jump back to the previous topic, "So you were eight when your mother died?"

"Yup," she answered.

"Were you there with her?"  He wasn't even sure why he'd asked the question, except maybe some sort of morbid curiosity and the way the smile melted from her face had him sure he'd asked one question too many.  She was going to shut him down, maybe get mad and walk away . . . but instead she spoke and when she did, it was with a deliberate evenness.

"She was my first dead body."

His stomach lurched and the salad in his hands no longer held any appeal.  "I'm sorry," Sam said softly, his eyes drifting away from her.  She didn't answer him and when he chanced a glance back, he found her staring down into her salad.  She looked fragile - _lost_ \- and he was speaking again before he could stop himself, "Mine was too."


	7. I Could Not Reach the Shore

** **

**_September 1980_ **

_I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy,_

_And he said one word to me and that was dead_

The music, soft and scratchy, drifted through the thin walls of the apartment and Sam could picture his father sitting in the living room, shirt off and beer in his hand, slouched down in front of the TV.  The record player would skip soon, the needle stuck on a scratch in the battered vinyl, and Dad would--

"Fucking piece of shit!"

There was a crash, then another string of foul curses that had Sam's eyes welling and his hands tugging his Star Wars blanket up under his chin.  Dad was scary when he got mad.  

"Jake, shhh," came his mother's soft voice.  Mom was good at calming Dad down.  "The boys are sleeping."

"Think I care?  Next disability check is going to a new fuckin' record player and some records.  Those little shits 'ave scratched 'em all!"

Shame coiled in Sam's belly, cheeks reddening in the darkness.  He'd been the one who'd scratched the Rolling Stones album when he was trying to change the song a few weeks ago.  Nathan hadn't had anything to do with it.

"Would you stop?" his mother murmured.  "They're _children_ , Jake.  And they're good boys; you don't have to say such terrible things . . ."

There was some incoherent grumbling and his mother said something else, but her words were too soft to catch under the stomping of his father's footsteps.  Probably getting another beer and Sam suspicions were confirmed with the _pop_ and _hiss_ of a pull tab.  

"Fuck the rent!  That's all I do is pay rent!  I served my country - lost a fucking limb for my country! - and this is the thanks I get?"

Across the bedroom, Nathan stirred in his crib.  Mom said that he was getting too big for it and he could climb out without even half trying.  Nathan was good at that - climbing.  He climbed everything and once he'd almost pulled over Mom's bookcase and gotten a black eye when one of her journals slid off and hit him.  They didn't have enough money to get another mattress though, so he was stuck in the crib for now.  

Sam sat up, casting a glance at the closed door before he slipped from the bed and padded across the room.  Standing on tiptoes, he reached into the crib and straightened the blankets that his baby brother had kicked off in restless sleep.  "Shhh," he whispered, rubbing his brother's back.

Mom was good at calming Dad down, Sam silently assured himself.  She had a way about her that his seven year old brain couldn't quite describe, a sort of soothing calmness no matter what sort of chaos was going on around her and it was almost like, sometimes, she didn't even hear it.  She'd be writing away in those white leather journals, pen scratching across the pages, and it was all she seemed to notice.  Sometimes Sam would go to her side and she'd reach for him without looking; she'd pull him to her side with her free hand, wrapping her arm around him or running her fingers through his hair, and he'd watch her write.  He couldn't read her writing, scrawled across the page in loops and whorls, but there was comfort in the warmth of her arm around him, the scent of ink and paper and leather and _mom_. . .

There was the sound of movement, the scratch of the needle against vinyl and the music began again.  

_You can't always get what you want, (no)_

_You can't always get what you want (tell me baby)_

"See?  It's fixed."

His father's only answer was another clatter - this time the sound of a beer can landing in the sink - and, under Sam's soothing hand, Nathan mumbled something in his sleep.

"Jake!  That's enough!"  Mom's voice was still soft, but there was steel under the whispered words.  "Come here and sit by me . . ."

After one final noisy protest, things quieted again and soon enough Nathan was sleeping soundly and Sam climbed back into bed.  Mom was always good at calming Dad down.  

* * *

 

**_July 1982_ **

"What year was Sir Francis Drake born?"

"Accounts vary," Sam started, absently pushing his green beans across his plate with his fork.  "But most histornians--"

"Historians," his mother corrected gently.

"-- _historians_ agree that Sir Francis Drake was born between fifteen forty and fifteen forty four."  His eyes lifted from his plate, face breaking into a grin at the pleased curve of his mother's lips and the shine of pride in her eyes.  

"Where was he born?" she asked.  Her eyes were on Sam, but still she reached out and brushed fingertips along her husband's wrist as he shifted his weight in the chair next to her.  

Sam's eyes skipped from his mother to his father, shirtless and scowling with a beer on the table next to his plate.  The stump of his arm drew honey brown eyes, always curious but never brave enough to ask questions.  Dad didn't like talking about the war.  "Tavistock, United Kingdom," Sam recited.  

"And what was his motto?" she asked next.

At that, Sam's face broke into a grin.  "Sic Parvis Magna!"

"Sig Pamis Mava!" Nathan echoed, eagerly clapping mashed potatoed hands.  

Mom laughed, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and Sam noticed that, behind his beer can, even dad cracked a smile.  

* * *

 

**_November, 1983_ **

Sam felt like he could barely move, bundled up against the harsh Boston winter like that kid from A Christmas Story.  Mom had taken them to see it only a few nights ago and it was the first time Sam had seen her laugh in months.  Something was going on, something big, but his parents wouldn't tell him anything even when he asked.  It was obvious though, and crystal clear in their whispered exchanges when they thought he and Nathan were busy watching TV.  

Dad was even more cranky than usual, complaining about everything and snapping at everyone.  He'd even smacked Nathan just the other night for interrupting him at the dinner table.  Mom had barely even noticed, just stared off into space while Nathan cried into his grilled cheese and Dad told him to stop being such a baby.  Mom's hair was starting to go gray too, just a bit here and there, and Sam thought she was too young to have gray hair and he'd told Nathan as much one night when they were supposed to be sleeping; she wasn't even thirty yet.  

There had been more arguments too.  Before, Mom wouldn't raise her voice; she'd just keep this soothing sort of tone until Dad worked out whatever was bothering him but now she'd scream right back.  It was scary, seeing her like that, and Nathan would stand on a chair whenever they started yelling.  He told Sam it was because he was scared his toes would get stepped on.  

The apartment was quiet though, when Sam ushered Nathan through the door and up the stairs.  It was a new apartment - they'd gotten kicked out of their old one when the landlord caught Dad taking a leak off the front steps - and it was actually kinda nice.  Two bedrooms, which meant that Dad and Mom didn't have to sleep on the pull-out couch anymore, and there was enough room in the bedroom that he shared with Nathan for them to set up a train set on the floor next to their bunk beds.  It wouldn't last though.  It never did.  

Standing in the kitchen, the two boys dropped their backpacks to the stained linoleum and shucked their layers - jackets, scarves, sweaters, boots caked with snow--

"Think Mom bought Twinkies?" Sam asked, idly wondering where their mother was.  He glanced at the calendar but the small square denoting _November 30, 1983_ was empty, which meant that she hadn't had work today.  She always wrote a small _E._ on the days when she worked but Sam never knew what it meant.  Maybe she was shopping?  She was usually here when they came home from school though . . .

"Mama?" Nathan called, as if reading Sam's mind.  "We're home!"

They were greeted with silence and, for some reason that he couldn't explain, Sam felt a sick feeling creep over him, settling heavy in his belly like too much extra-cheese pizza.  He padded into the living room on socked feet, but mom wasn't in there, and it wasn't until he turned into the hallway that he noticed her bedroom door was closed.  "Mom?" he called as he started down the hallway, voice shaking and eyes filling with tears that he quickly blinked away.  Why was he _crying?_  That was stupid.  She was probably just taking a nap . . .

Mom never napped.  She'd been so _weird_ lately, though.

Sam stopped in front of the closed door, his brain telling him to open it, but he couldn't seem to get his hand to move and he had no idea _why_. . .

"Sam?" Nathan whispered, coming up beside him and reaching for his hand.  

"Get away, Nathan!" Sam snapped, pulling his arm away.  "Just--"  He turned and met his brother's blue eyes, wide and searching, and understanding passed between them without need for words.  Sam wasn't the only one who had a bad feeling.  Swallowing back his next words, which were going to be _just go watch TV or something!_ , Sam laid a hand on his brother's shoulder and reached for the doorknob to give it a twist.  

Locked.  

Sam pulled his lip between his teeth and worried at the flesh, indecision bringing him to a standstill.  Was there a key?  Instead, he knocked, just a soft rap of knuckles on wood, and called softly, "Mum?"

Silence.  

Again, his eyes started burn with the threat of tears and, yet again, he wiped them away.  Dad would call him him a pussy if he came home and found Sam crying because of a locked door.  

"Mommy!"

Nathan's shrill call made Sam jump and it prompted him into motion.  He had to get that door open.  He wasn't sure why or even _how_ but he had to do it.  "Stay here," he told his brother, then trotted back down the hall and into the kitchen.  Under the sink was a toolbox, just a small one, but Sam knew that there was a screwdriver inside because Dad had used it to take the cover off the ceiling light when he changed the bulb last week.  He rifled through the metal box, hand closing around the molded plastic handle, then ran back to where he'd left his brother.  

Nathan looked scared - _terrified_ \- and maybe all the more because neither of them knew _why_ they were so scared.  They didn't even know if mom was in there!  "Nathan . . ." Sam started, but he had no idea what to say and the chances of him speaking past the lump in his throat were dwindling with every passing second, so instead, he set his jaw and jammed the screwdriver into the lock, giving it a violent wrench--

And the door popped open an inch.  

Sam reached behind him and pushed Nathan back just a bit, then poked his head into the room.  "Mum?" he whispered.  She was lying on the bed in a patch of late afternoon sun, her long hair spread out across the pillows like some sort of halo and, for a moment, the only thought in Sam's head was that she looked _beautiful_.  Her skin was pale, almost shining in the light, and her face smooth of the worry that had been creasing it over the last year or so.

"Mum?" he asked again, so softly, and stepped into the room.  She didn't move, didn't answer him, didn't even acknowledge he'd spoken, and that sick feeling in his belly got stronger.  Something was wrong and this time, when the tears came, he didn't bother to wipe them away and they overflowed, coursing down over cheeks still ruddy from the cold.  "Mummy?"

"Sam, what's wrong with Mama?"

Sam's stomach lurched, bile rising in the back of his throat, and he spun away from the scene before him, reaching for Nathan and propelling him back through the open door and into the hallway.  He couldn't stay in that room any longer; he had to get _away_ and he had to bring Nathan with him.

"What's wrong?" Nathan asked again, confusion etching his features as he allowed himself to be dragged from the room.  "Sam, why didn't mama answer?  What's wrong with her?"  His lip trembled, "Sam, why are you crying?"

Sam couldn't answer though, couldn't bring himself to say the words that were rattling around in the back of his head, so he just dragged his brother into their bedroom and closed the door.  He went to the dresser and put a shoulder to it, shoving it with all his strength until it slid across the floor, creeping further across the cheap berber carpet and, inch by inch, in front of the closed door.

"Sam?" Nathan asked again, his voice quavering.  He was crying freely, nose running and eyes red and his smooth brow furrowed in confusion as he watched his brother barricade them in their bedroom.  

When he was satisfied that no one was getting through that door, Sam turned and stripped the blanket off his bed, grabbed both his pillow and Nathan's from the bottom bunk, and then led the way into the closet.  He made them a nest there on the floor, then pulled the door closed, wrapped his arms around his baby brother's shoulders and let the sobs come.

* * *

 

Eventually dad came home, his arrival heralded by a flurry of curses as he was greeted by the pile of winter clothes and bookbags left on the kitchen floor.  He growled something about _breaking his fucking neck_ then boomed out, "Cassandra?"

In the darkness of the closet, with the blanket wrapped around them, Sam's arm tightened around Nathan.  At some point, his brother's tears had slowed and Nathan had drifted to sleep half curled atop Sam, exhaustion and confusion finally giving way to fitful rest.  Sam couldn't sleep though, couldn't relax, and he listened to the sound of his father moving through the apartment, going from room to room in search of his wife or kids . . .

"Cassandra, what the--"

The words were quickly swallowed by a gasping sob, a broken wail of _oh god Cassandra!_ and Sam's tears started again.  He had never heard so much emotion in his father's voice - unless it was anger, of course - and his stomach turned again at the sound of Jacob Morgan pleading with his dead wife to open her eyes, to not do this to him _because he couldn't do it without her_ . . .

And it went on for what felt like forever and, through it all, Sam stayed where he was.  He murmured comforting words to Nathan when his brother woke, soothed him with assurances that he was there, that he'd always be there to take care of him.  He didn't know how to answer Nathan's questions though, half remembered tales of God and Heaven just didn't seem to cut it and just left his baby brother with more questions than answers.  

After a while, there was more noise but unlike the sounds of their Dad coming home, this noise was confusing.  Lots of footsteps, people asking questions and their father's sobs the only answer.

"Your landlord said that you have two boys, Mr. Morgan.  Do you know where they are?"

"Have you seen them since you got home?"

"Sergeant, this lock was broken . . ."

"Do you think the boys found her and ran away?"

"Mr. Morgan, is this your sons' bedroom?"

"They've got the door jammed tight."

"Get it open."

"They're not here, sir."

"Check the closet."

The door opened, flooding the closet with artificial light, and Sam squinted up at the silhouette of a burly police officer.  "Hey boys," he said gently, dropping down into a crouch.  "How're you holding up?"

* * *

 

**_January 1984_ **

Two months.  Two months of Dad drinking himself to sleep every night.  Two months of cursing, screaming, crying; two months before Dad decided that he couldn't do it.  Two months before they'd been tossed aside in favor of the freedom for Jacob Morgan to drink himself to death.  Two months before Sam and Nathan were left alone and bewildered in the care of Father Duffy and the Sisters of St. Francis Boys Home.  

Christmas had been a joke.  Nathan was too young to know that there wasn't a Santa, so Sam had taken it upon himself to go to the store with the little money he'd scraped together to buy him the Tonka Power-Shift Mountain Master RC car that he'd been asking for since September.  It had been the only gift 'Santa' had left at the tiny apartment they'd had to move to and it had taken Sam snapping at him for Nathan to finally stop asking why Santa had only left one gift.  

The remote control Jeep had come with them to the orphanage but it hadn't lasted a week before it had been broken by one of the other boys.  Sam had given the kid a black eye for it.

"I don't like this place," Nathan whispered during Mass one morning.  

Sam gave him a sidelong glance.  "I know, Nathan," he answered, his voice just as soft.

"I want to go home."

Sam's lips pressed into a hard line.  "This is our home now."  

There was a sniffle and Sam glanced at his brother to find tears making their slow descent down Nathan's cheeks.  Screw Mass.  He turned in the pew to face his brother, hands on Nathan's shoulders as he forced him to meet his eyes.  "Listen to me," he said, ignoring the hiss of his name from an irritated nun.  "We're together and that's all that matters, okay?  Whatever happens--"

"Samuel Morgan!"

Again, Sam ignored the Sister, gaze still locked with his brother's.  She was making more of a scene than he was!  "Whatever happens, Nathan," he continued, "as long as we're together, _we'll be okay_."

_"Samuel Morgan!  Come with me this instant!"_

"I promise, Nathan," Sam finished, rising to his feet.  " _I promise._ "

 


	8. Feel Her Insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this! Feedback is absolutely welcome, so please don't be shy! Also, feel free to find me on tumblr at xturtletrashx.

"How old were you when she died?" Simone asked softly, her eyes lifting from the salad in her hands.  Sam was watching her closely, those honey-brown eyes intent on her face and she hated that she couldn't quite read his expression.  There was sympathy there, for sure, but not pity and she appreciated that.

"Ten."  

His answer was simple, to the point, and the way he looked away from her made it clear that he wasn't going to share his story, so Simone let it go.  She set her food on the coffee table, then took his bowl out of his hands and set it next to hers, making room so she could move in closer to him and wrap herself in his arms.  

He liked being touched, she'd noticed, and not just in the sexual way that was to be expected - though he liked that plenty too.  No, it was the casual touches that made his muscles relax and his breathing steady, and those were the touches that Simone was always hesitant to give her lovers because those were the touches that built _relationships_.

Sam's body was warm, his arms wrapped loosely around her and his breath stirring the curls atop her head and the quiet that settled over them was profound in its comfort.  And it made Simone wary.  She'd initiated this contact, she'd wanted his arms around her, and the realization had her heart rate kicking up in panic, reinforcing her instincts to _run_ .  Their relationship was defined by sex, not by emotional connection, and she was desperate to keep that definition in place because once there was connection, there was no going back.  But _she'd_ opened that door by bringing up her father.  No.   _No_ , Sam had started it by bringing her to Victoria Street, by watching her with that _look_ on his face . . .

So she did the only thing she could think of to keep things on the playfully evan keel they had been: she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, catching his lips in a messy kiss and ignoring the surprised noise that escaped him.  

"Simone--" he started, breaking the kiss.

She didn't want to hear whatever it was that he had to say, though.  "Just fuck me, yeah?" she demanded, pulling her shirt off and tossing it over the back of the couch.  

"I don't--" he tried again, but she was grabbing his hands and bringing them up to cup her breasts.  It was frustrating how single-minded he was in that moment, how he refused to acknowledge her tits against his palms, and instead kept his focus on her face as he asked, "Are you sure?"

Those three little words had Simone wanting to smack him, to lash out in anger and frustration and desperation and all she could manage to do was snap out, "I told you to fuck me, didn't I?"

But Sam was shaking his head, twisting his hands out of her grip.  "No."

Simone's eyes were burning with the sudden threat of tears, her chest constricting with emotion until even the simple act of drawing a breath felt impossible.  "You're such a fuckin' asshole," she ground out from between clenched teeth.  

Sam's eyebrows lowered, anger and confusion flickering across his features.  "Why?" he demanded.  "Because thinking about my dead mother didn't get me hot enough to fuck you?"

His words were like a smack in the face and Simone drew back, one hand braced on his knee as he continued, his words cracking like a whip: "What the hell is this, Simone?"

"That's not--" Simone started, but the words died on her lips.  It hadn't even crossed her mind that he might not be interested because of _that_ ; all she could see were the hints that this was becoming something _more_ and she couldn't deal with that; she'd panicked.  Sex was simple and she _needed_ simple because there wasn't enough room in her life for more complications.

"Not what?"

The growled demand had Simone retreating further, climbing off of his lap and putting the coffee table between them.  He stayed on the couch, but leaned forward with an easy sort of readiness that Simone hadn't yet seen from him.  Sam was always sort of laid back around her - go with the flow and relaxed - but she knew that there were sides of him she had yet to see and, in this moment, she was struck but how . . . _dangerous_ he looked.  Despite the darkness in his eyes though, there was no worry that he was going to snap - not like when she was dealing with Rafe.  No, in her gut Simone knew that Sam was _safe_.

Simone sighed and some of the tension eased from her muscles.  "I'm sorry, alright?  I just . . . I need t' make sure that this is still what we'd agreed it was."

Sam shook his head in question, his expression making it pretty clear that he had no idea what she was talking about.

"This!" Simone huffed, gesturing between the two of them.  "Just fucking, right?"

Sam blinked in sudden understanding and sat back again.  "Yeah," he said with a decisive nod.  "It's just fucking."

" _Good_ ," she agreed, hands on her hips.  There was a beat of silence and then she sighed and cracked a small smile, "Because I don't want to have to stop fucking you because you went and fell in love with me or something."

* * *

 

It wasn't just fucking though and Simone knew it.  That trip down to Edinburgh had changed their relationship whether they'd wanted it to or not and, in retrospect, Simone should have known that it would.  The two of them alone in the city and sharing a suite, pretending to be husband and wife whenever they saw a member of the hotel staff, sharing those tiny glimpses into each others lives . . . and it only seemed to fuel her interest.  

Which, in turn, fueled her _panic_.  

The evening after they got back saw Simone wandering the castle, her eyes peeled for the familiar form of Sergei.  She eventually found him in the gym, dangling from a pull up bar, and he greeted her with a smile and a wink.  "Enjoying the show?" he asked once he'd spotted her reflection in the mirror, those impressive muscles bunching again as he continued his reps.

"S'alright," Simone answered with a shrug, a coy smile playing at the corners of her lips.  

"Just alright?" Sergei laughed, dropping back to his feet and reaching for a bottle of water.  

Her smile pulled into a grin, one eyebrow lifting.  "Yeah, s'alright."  She turned on her heel, heading back the way she'd come and knowing that he'd follow.

"How was your _vacation_?" he asked, picking up the pace a bit to fall into step with her, and Simone gave him a sidelong look as they walked.

Her answer was a simple, "Fine."  

The silence that fell between them was thoughtful and Simone swore she could hear the gears turning in Sergei's head.  Bless him, but he wasn't the brightest bulb.  When he broke the silence though, he broke it hard.  "What is it with you and old guys?"

Simone was just mounting the stairs and she turned to face him so fast that she very nearly lost her footing, one hand grabbing the railing even as Sergei automatically reached out to steady her.  " _Skroef jou,_ " she snapped, slapping his hand away.  

"Hey, hey!" he said quickly, hands coming up defensively.  "I was just wondering."

"How 'bout keeping that _wonderin'_ to yourself, yeah?"

Sergei nodded quickly, "Yeah, okay."

Without another word, Simone led the way to her room and as soon as they were alone, she was kissing him, pulling her clothes off and helping him strip out of his own.  His tattooed skin was salty with sweat, his scent arousing, and the feel of those muscles under her hands should have had Simone's head spinning, but instead she found herself rather . . . bored?  

Sergei had never held Simone's attention very firmly but she'd always enjoyed their time together, quite willing to trace those tattoos with tongue or fingertips, to thoroughly appreciate his sculpted abs and the powerful thrusts of his hips.  In short, he was just one name on her rather long list of lovers but it was disconcerting - and uncomfortably eye-opening - to find that her interest was waning.  

"Harder," she ordered, reaching one hand up to brace on the headboard as he picked up the tempo and plowed in her.  It did nothing though and Simone bit back a sigh, eyes drifting around the room until a bit of red caught her attention.  It was Sam's shirt, the flannel that she'd swiped and promised to return, lying over the back of the arm chair in front of the window.  She'd told him that she'd forgotten to pack it into her suitcase before leaving for Edinburgh, but truth was that she hadn't wanted to part with it.  

"Get off me," she said suddenly, planting a hand in the center of his expansive chest and pushing him away.  

"What?" Sergei asked, blinking at her in confusion as he settled back on his heels.  "Why?"

Simone sighed and sat up, tucking her curls behind an ear and looking everywhere but at her lover.  "Just go, please?"

Sergei was annoyed, hurt probably, but he gathered up his clothes and left without a word.  

As the door closed behind him, Simone climbed off the bed and reached for the flannel but hesitated before picking it up.  It still smelled like Sam, a mix of musky smoke and leather and that subtle masculine scent that was all his alone, and she didn't want to compromise that sensuality with the scent of Sergei still clinging to her skin.  So she wrapped herself in her bathrobe instead, plush and grey with brightly colored flowers, and collected her phone from the bedside table.  

She scrolled down through her contacts, finger hovering over _Andre_ as she stood beside the bed and chewed her lower lip in indecision.  He'd been calling her, leaving messages like he always did and they were always similar.  

_I know you're busy, Simone.  You're doing important work and I respect that.  I just want you to know that I was thinking about you and I hope you're doing well.  Please call me when you have some time?  I love you . . ._

She saved all of those messages and, for a moment, she considered listening to them instead of calling him but it had been almost a month . . .

Her thumb tapped his name and she put the phone to her ear, eyes going to the darkened sky beyond her window as it rang and rang and she was just considering hanging up when suddenly there was a click and a faint _hello?_

"Andre," she said softly.  

There was a second of silence and then, "Simone?"

"I'm sorry," she said in Afrikaans, forcing a smile into her voice.  "Did I wake you?"

"Yes," he answered, "but it's alright."  There was a rustle of blankets, a soft groan of pain, and Simone could picture him sitting up, shifting until he was leaning against the headboard.  "I am happy to hear your voice.  How are you, my love?"

"I'm . . ."  Simone paused, searching for the words that would accurately describe the confusion, the fear, the worry, that had settled on her shoulders.  In the end, she settled for, "I've been busy."

"Are you still in Scotland?"

"Yeah.  Nadine's decided to start up some training camps, so we'll have recruits flying in within the next week."  She gave a breath of a laugh, "She says we're all gonna get fat if we sit around too much, so we may as well make use of all this downtime."  

"Nadine is efficient," Andre commented.  "It's a good use of a soldier's time.  Has she asked you to teach?"

"Mhm."  Simone absently twisted a curl around her finger, her eyes on the flannel again.  "Sniper training."  

"You'll do well."  

There was pride in his voice and it had warmth blossoming in her chest and a soft smile curving her lips as she grabbed the shirt and then settled back on the bed, curling around the pillows.  Simone knew why she'd made this call.  She needed to feel safe in a way that Sam couldn't provide; she needed to be on even footing, and with Andre, she always knew where she stood.

"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've called," she ventured.

"I understand."  And he did.  He always did.  He'd always given her the space she needed, all the freedom to chase her whims and what he asked of her in return was really simple to give.  "Are you coming home for Heritage Day?" he continued.

Simone smiled, "You know I wouldn't miss it."  Her fingertips trailed over the buttons of Sam's flannel and she pulled the shirt closer so she could bury her face into it and breath in deeply of his scent.

Andre's chuckle was soft, "I am glad to hear that.  And everyone will be happy to hear that my lovely wife will be in attendance.  I think the only reason they put up with my company is because of you!"  

Simone answered that with a laugh.  As if her husband - rich, charming, handsome - brought nothing to the table!  "Well, naturally," she joked.

He laughed again, but this time the humor was followed up by a wracking cough and, again, Simone could picture him reaching for his handkerchief and pressing it against his lips to help stifle the noise.  She allowed him a moment to catch his breath, then said softly, "I'm looking forward to seeing you."

"And I, you, my love.  Please keep in touch?"

"Of course," she lied, just like every time they spoke.  

"I love you, Simone."

"I love you too, Andre."

 


	9. I Don't Think There is Much Hope for Me

"So . . ."

Sam glanced up from the maps spread out in front of him, eyes drifting down the length of the heavy wooden table to where Rafe sat, his jacket unzipped and the hoodie underneath it as well, letting in some of the chill that was growing with every passing day.  Sam wasn't sure how he could stand it, his own jacket buttoned to his neck and a knit hat pulled down over his ears, but then Rafe hadn't spent the last thirteen years in Panama.  

"Yeah?" Sam prompted around a cigarette.  Smoking helped to keep him warm, he'd found, though he wasn't sure how much of that was just the distraction it provided.  Indeed, the walls around them did little keep the wind at bay, crumbling as they were, but it was still easy to imagine that the Cathedral sanctuary had been breathtaking in its heyday.  Now, of course, time had taken its toll and the floor was littered with crumbled stones, the stained glass long shattered and crude graffiti decorated the back wall, where St. Dismas would have once hung upon his cross.  

"The Happily Ever After package?"  Rafe arched an eyebrow, "Really Sam?"

Sam couldn't stop the laugh that escaped, a brief chuckle that just barely preempted the shrug of one shoulder.  "It wasn't my idea," he said, eyes going again to the maps in front of him.  He was surprised it had taken Rafe this long to bring it up; he and Simone had been back for a week.  "But I'm not gonna turn down cake and free booze either."

"Of course not," Rafe agreed, his tone deceptively light.  "I'm sure Simone took excellent care of you."

Sam exhaled a puff of smoke, eyes going to the cigarette in his hand as he tried to decide what to say to that.  Rafe was baiting him, obviously, and if Sam were smart he'd just let it lie.  Neither he nor Simone had done anything wrong; she may be quite a bit younger than he was, but they were both adults and how they chose to spend their 'off time' was no one's business but their own.  Sam knew that he didn't have to justify his actions to Rafe but he still found himself doing just that as he leaned back in his chair and settled his eyes on the other man again.  "She's good company," he said with a shrug.  

"Oh, I'm not blaming you," Rafe said quickly, leaning back in his own chair and mirroring Sam's relaxed posture.  Just two guys chatting about women.  Right.  "Simone is very attractive and, from what I hear, she's a whole lot of fun in bed."

Sam felt his stomach flipflop at Rafe's words and he could tell from the smug smirk that crossed Rafe's features that he hadn't successfully hidden the tightening in his jaw.   _From what I hear_ .  What was that supposed to mean?  And why did the implications bother him so much?  Hell, he'd known from the start that Simone was hardly innocent and he didn't _care_. . .

"At least that's what the other contractors say," Rafe amended, lifting his hands.  "I can't speak from experience."

Sam was oddly relieved to hear that, even if he hated the insinuation that there was something inherently wrong with Simone having had other lovers prior to him.  She could do whatever she wanted.  He just . . . maybe hoped she was only doing it with him right now?  Jealousy shouldn't have a place in a stringless relationship, yet the thought of any of those beefed up _Sergeis_ laying hands on her had something quite similar to it souring Sam's belly.

"What she does when she's not with me is her business," he said after what was probably too long of a pause.

"Of course," Rafe nodded.  

There was something in his tone and body language that had Sam's focus sharpening, eyes narrowing as he peered across the room at Rafe.  "What?" he snapped.

Rafe shrugged and shook his head.  "Nothing."

"Bullshit," Sam scoffed.  "What?"

"I just," Rafe sighed and smoothed a hand over the book open on the table in front of him.  "I think--you know, never mind.  I don't want to get something else thrown at my head."

Now it was Sam's turn to sigh, "Would you just fucking spit it out?"

"I just think it's good that you're not getting attached, that's all," Rafe said, and his apparent concerned seemed so genuine that Sam couldn't even be upset by the words.  "Thirteen years is a long time to be out of the game . . ."

"Rafe," Sam sighed again.  "Just shut up, okay?"

* * *

 

"He's 'ere again."

Simone's eyes lifted to her sister and she found Nadine staring across the field.  "He's probably curious," she shrugged, brown eyes going to the familiar figure leaning against the stout stone wall, the faint glow of a cigarette easily drawing her eye like a tiny beacon in the rapidly fading light.  "This shit is pretty fascinatin'," she continued, turning her attention back to dismantling her M21 sniper rifle and crouching down to pack it away in its custom case, _Shoreline_ emblazoned on the side.  

Nadine's knowing look wasn't missed though.  "I doubt it's the training that's fascinatin' him," she quipped.

Simone laughed and closed the case, a distinct warmth in her chest as she snapped the locks in place and straightened to her full height again.  "Can ya blame 'im?"  

Nadine didn't crack a smile though, and instead the expression she fixed Simone with was one of concern.  "I hope you're being careful," she said, stepping closer and lowering her voice so the contractors milling about wouldn't overhear.

Simone shook her head, giving a breath of a laugh as she tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and purposely missed Nadine's point, "I'm still on the Pill.  And we're using condoms, if that's wha' you're worried about."  She smirked, "No babies or VD for this girl."

One eyebrow twitched up and Nadine shook her head, "You know that's not what I mean."  

Simone sighed, her eyes drifting back to Sam's form in the distance.  He was there almost every night, once darkness and the cold had he and Rafe calling it quits for the day, and he'd always lean back against the wall and smoke a cigarette, watching as Shoreline's training drew to an end.  And then, afterwards, Simone would meet him at his cottage down near the water and she'd tuck herself under his arm to watch a movie or they'd fuck or just talk . . .

And slowly, Simone learned more and more about her _fuck buddy_ , like that he had a certain fondness for motorcycles, a certain hatred for the Rolling Stones, and couldn't bring himself to eat asparagus, that he loved his brother with all his heart and was completely obsessed with finding Avery's treasure; he may have denied it, but there was no doubt in Simone's mind that he was, indeed, an expert on the pirate.  It was also becoming more and more apparent that there was something weird between Sam and Rafe but with her limited knowledge and her hesitance to ask either man about it, she couldn't quite fit the pieces together.  

Brown eyes cut toward her sister then and Simone hefted the rifle case, slinging it over her shoulder as they started across the field.  "Hey, so does Rafe ever talk 'bout Sam?"

Nadine gave her a curious glance.  "Talk about 'im?"  She snorted a laugh, "Yeah, all the time."  

"Like . . . what's he say?" Simone asked.

Nadine shrugged one shoulder.  "Talks a lot of shit, mostly.  It's different than the way he talks 'bout Sam's brother though."  She paused, as if trying to decide how much to say.  "There's almost . . . a warmth to it?"  She shrugged again, "Makes me wonder what things were like between them before Sam went to prison."

Simone nodded, "Sam's the same.  I think he's really angry with Rafe, though."

Nadine's laugh was unexpected and Simone arched an eyebrow at her in question.  "Ya think?" her sister asked.  "It's usually _anger_ that drives someone to throw a vase at someone else's head!"

"What?" Simone asked, reaching out and grabbing her sister by the sleeve to drag her to a stop.  "The cut on Rafe's head?  Sam did that?"

Nadine nodded, another chuckle escaping.  "They argued 'bout something right before Rafe left for Miami and Sam threw a vase at him."  She grinned, "He had to push back his flight so he could get stitches.  Rafe was _not_ happy."

Simone's mouth hung open for a second, her brain stuck on the image of Sam - sweet, laid-back Sam - throwing a vase at someone's head.  Though, if anyone could push him to do it, Rafe seemed the most likely candidate.  And, again, Simone was reminded that she had yet to see every side of her new lover; just because she knew that he never put the toilet seat down, didn't mean that she knew what pushed his buttons.  

Her brown eyes went back to his distant figure and she started slowly walking again, leaving Nadine half a step behind.  "Sam never mentioned it," she said after a moment, watching as he pushed away from the wall and began heading in the direction of his cottage.  Just like every night that he stopped to watch, he was making his escape before having to come face to face with she and Nadine.  Not that Simone could blame him for being reluctant to navigate those choppy waters.  

"Their relationship is strange," Nadine commented, and Simone noticed that she was also watching as Sam walked away.  "There always an elephant in the room with them.  I think it might have to do with Sam's brother."  

"Yeah.  His brother is a sore spot," Simone confirmed.  She had yet to share space with Sam and Rafe, so she couldn't claim to know if Nadine's hunch was correct, but it made her curious to see if she could get Sam talking at some point.

When they reached the stone wall, Simone passed off the rifle case and bid her sister good night before changing direction and heading down in the general direction of the water rather than the castle.  Sam's cottage sat on the edge of the castle grounds, barely ten meters from the rocky drop that led down to the equally rocky beach, and with the windows lit with the glow of lamplight it looked just as picturesque and welcoming as it always did.  

She knocked once before trying the door and finding it unlocked, then shouldered her way inside to find Sam settled on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, brow furrowed as he frowned down at the laptop balanced across his thighs.  

"Evenin'," she greeted, nudging the door closed with one booted foot and giving him a smile as he glanced up.  

"Hey," he returned distractedly, eyes going back to the screen.  

Simone's own brow furrowed, but with a pout rather than a frown, and she unzipped her heavy coat to shrug out of it and toss it onto the bed.  "Whatcha doing?" she asked lightly, as if she weren't vaguely annoyed at being sort of ignored.  

"Tryin' to find my brother," Sam answered without looking up.  

Simone blinked, hands hesitating as she slowly unbuckled her belt.  "Is he lost?" she ventured, pushing her pants down over her hips as she circled the couch.  

"What?" Sam asked, looking up at her again.

With her pants around her calves, Simone dropped down onto the couch beside him and leaned over to begin untying her boots.  "Is he lost?" she asked again, laces sliding between her fingers.  "Or hiding?"

Sam's head tipped.  "Ah . . . no.  I don't think so, anyway."

She toed off first one boot and then the other, then kicked off her pants.  "Did you try Facebook?  'S a good place to start."  

"Facebook?" he repeated, eyes going back to the computer screen.

Simone gave him a long look before reaching over and claiming the computer, lifting it from his lap and settling it on her own.  "I mean, I guess there's a chance he doesn't 'ave it but, like," she glanced up, " _everyone_ 'as Facebook."  Her attention went back to the laptop, pink lacquered nails typing away, and then a moment later, "Is this him?"  

"That was quick."  Sam leaned closer, his warmth pressed against her arm and the smell of cigarettes tickling her nose, and Simone turned her face to watch him as he skimmed the screen, eyes lingering on the icon.  There wasn't much on the profile - at least not for public viewing - but the picture showed a man who looked a bit like Sam with his arm slung around the shoulders of a pretty blonde; they were both smiling and in the background was a kitchen counter with what looked like a stack of mail atop it.

"It says _married to Elena Fisher_."

Simone shrugged, pulling her eyes from his face and turning her attention back to the screen instead.  "Why can't he be married?"  She clicked on the link to take them to Elena Fisher's page and found another selfie of the two of them, this time with much better lighting and some sort of marketplace in the background.

"He _can_.  I just . . . I dunno," Sam muttered, reaching out to take the computer back.  

While he scrolled through the two Facebook pages, Simone rose from the couch and went to the mini fridge, wrapping her fingers around the necks of two beer bottles and popping the caps off.  "God, I'm _starving_ ," she complained, returning to the couch with a bag of crisps and holding out a beer in silent offer.  

"He looks happy, doesn't he?" Sam asked, ignoring the offered beer.

Simone set the bottle on the coffee table instead and then settled down next to him.  "Why wouldn't he be?" she asked, tucking her legs up underneath her and taking a long pull from the bottle.  "He's got 'imself a hot wife and," she pointed, "that looks like a nice kitchen."  There was a beat of silence and, again, Simone's gaze was drawn to Sam's profile.  "Are you happy for 'im?" she asked gently.  

Sam's eyes darted to her face, obviously surprised by the question.  "What?"  He nodded, "Yeah.  Yeah, of course.  It's just . . ."

"Just what?" she prompted, leaning forward and setting her beer beside his untouched one.

His sigh was heavy, melancholy, and Simone found herself setting the crisps aside as well so she could turn on the couch to face him without distractions.  And she immediately regretted it, because had she been digging through the bag for a crisp, she would have missed the flicker of pain that crossed his features, there and then gone again in a flash, and then she would have been free to let the conversation die.  Instead, she was left sitting with a mildly sick feeling in the pit of her stomach because she knew what was coming next.  

"I just missed so much of his life, y'know?"  

The confession was spoken hollowly, the feelings that should have accompanied the words seemingly something separate, and Simone felt her chest tighten in sympathy.  She didn't know the details of his incarceration or what he had done to land himself in prison, or why his brother was now estranged but it was clear that all of this bothered Sam, even if she didn't know every in and out of it.  And she hated how much it bothered _her_ that it bothered _him_.  

Before she could stop it, she found herself reaching up and tracing her thumb over the curve of his ear, but even that touch didn't pull his attention from the face smiling at him from the screen.  "Yeah," she said softly.  "I know."  

She was torn, both desperate for a distraction and burning with desire for him to keep talking, and in her head, there were a million questions she wanted to ask him to fill in the million holes in her knowledge but every single one got stuck on the backs of her teeth.  Her typical reaction to something like this was to make a joke, or to redirect to sex; anything to stop the conversation from continuing but if there was one thing their last day in Edinburgh had taught her, it was that Sam could be funny about her initiating sex when things were getting . . . messy.  It left her unsure of what to do next and her awkward fidgeting no doubt gave it away because he was closing the laptop, setting it aside, and shaking off the emotions that had been weighing him down only seconds earlier.  

"C'mere," he murmured, leaning in to catch her lips in a kiss and Simone felt her body wake in response.  This was simple.  This was what their relationship was and _this_ she could work with.  

Her hands tugged at his sweater and he reared back to pull it, and the tee-shirt beneath, over his head and toss it aside.  Like always, Simone took a half a second to appreciate the lean muscle he bared - she swore there was barely an ounce of fat on him - before she was touching.  Her hands traced over his shoulders as he pushed her down onto the couch beneath him, his lips leaving tickling trails across her belly even as his hands sought the delicate lace of her brightly colored panties to drag them down her thighs.

At first he took it slow, building her up with teasing nibbles along her thighs until a whimper escaped her lips.  "Saaaam," she whined, grabbing at the back of the couch and using it as leverage to angle her hips toward his face.  

He chuckled against that indentation where thigh and body met, his breath tightening her skin with goosebumps and Simone let out a frustrated huff.  Her body was screaming for something to fill her up, to clench down on, and he was being a cheeky bastard!  "I'm 'bout to just do it myse-- _oh!_ "  The word was lost in a moan as his mouth found her clit and two fingers slipped up inside her, every muscle in her pelvis tensing with the sudden rush of sensation.  

"Oh _fuck_ ," she gasped, hips rocking against his face as her body tingled with budding orgasm.  Last time he'd gone down on her, he'd taken his time, dragging her right to the edge of climax over and over again until she was begging to finish, but the patience he'd shown when he'd first removed her panties was nowhere to be seen now.  He ate her out with desperate eagerness, his free hand sliding under the hem of her shirt to hook fingers into the soft cup of her bra and free one breast.  And the warmth of his palm against her flesh was the final piece Simone needed to push her into orgasm, ecstacy bowing her back, drawing ragged gasps from her throat, and leaving her primed for a hard fucking.  

"Condom," she gasped, pushing away from him and climbing unsteadily over the arm of the couch.  Her legs threatened to give out as she nearly stumbled across the room, crawling across the bed to slide open the bedside table drawer and fish around for a condom.  A dip in the mattress barely preceded Sam reaching over her shoulder to grab it from her fingers and Simone arched her back, another needy whimper escaping as she offered herself up to him.  

He fucked her from behind, hard and fast until Simone's head was spinning and her body on fire and she urged him on with dirty whispers until his rhythm faltered and he looped an arm around her hips, pressing as much of his skin against her back as possible.  The warmth of his body, the feel of his breath on the back of her neck, the pinch of pain as he set teeth to the curve of her neck, their combined scents in the sheets under her cheek; it was nearly overwhelming, but Simone's eyes blinked open.  Her gaze focused on his hand atop hers, strong fingers laced with her own in a touch that was far more tender than she'd expected and it distracted her from his orgasm, making her miss those oh-so satisfying moans as he came undone behind her.

His nose was pressed just under her ear, his weight on her back both crushing and comforting, but Simone found herself needing space, so she murmured, "I'm leaving in a few days."

Sam stiffened above her.  "To go where?" he asked, voice rough in her ear.  

"Home for a bit," she continued, her eyes still on their interlaced fingers.  "I won't be gone long; bout a week maybe."  Hopefully enough for things to cool off a bit between them.  

Sam pushed himself off of her and settled back against the headboard, leaving her free to roll onto her side and watch him as he reached for the cigarettes sitting on the table.  He still had his socks on, she noticed, but then so did she.  

"What's going on back home?" he asked as he lit up, absently setting the lighter aside as he blew out a stream of smoke.  

"Party," she answered, a bit vaguely.  She couldn't exactly tell him that she was going back to see her husband though, could she?  "One of my friends is turnin' thirty and 'er family is throwin' a big surprise party for 'er."  It was a simple lie, one that would be easy to keep up for a week or so since she'd gone back to Durban for that exact reason only a few months ago.  She gave a languid stretch, rolling onto her back in the same movement, and gave him a playful smile.  "You gonna miss me?"

Sam's smile was clearly indulgent and he abandoned the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray in favor of pushing away from the headboard and crawling over her.  "I'll miss these," he teased, hands sliding up under her shirt to cup her breasts and Simone found herself giggling in response as she wrapped her legs loosely around his waist.

"That it?" she asked, unable to resist the promise of praise.  

He pressed a kiss onto her belly, hands sliding around to grab her ass, "And this."

"Mmm," Simone purred.  "What else?"

He tipped his head up to look at her, the scruff on his chin scraping against the soft skin of her belly.  "Your laugh."  He levered himself up onto an elbow and reached up to smooth his thumb across her cheekbone, "And these freckles."  His fingers moved to her curls, unruly and escaping the knot she'd twisted them into, "And this wild hair."

Simone watched him for a heartbeat, her face softening at the softly whispered words and the gentle touches and - oh god! - did she ever just want to stay right here with him.  They could hole up in this tiny cottage on the water and let the real world, with all of its real problems and confusing people, just fall away, and life could be simple . . .

Until it wasn't anymore.  Until Sam's hands stopped catching her attention, until the lines around his eyes stopped being so captivating, until she grew bored with fucking in front of the fireplace and the need for adventure beckoned.  And then she would disappear into the night, breaking his heart into a million pieces.

"You're a fuckin' sap!" Simone teased, and he answered that with a laugh as she pushed him away and climbed off the bed.  She started for the bathroom, pausing just long enough to stand on one foot and pull off a sock to throw at him.  "I'm goin' t'bed."   

* * *

 

Simone's arm was slung across his chest, her thigh across his hips, and her back so very soft under his fingertips as Sam trailed them soothingly up and down her spine.  She'd fallen asleep quickly, like she normally did, leaving him without distraction from the ever growing desire to get up and open the computer again.  

What was the point though?  To stare at his brother's smiling face and be reminded that Nathan was getting along just fine without him; that his baby brother had healed and moved on?

There was an uncomfortable ache in his chest and a longing for nicotine, and against Sam's better judgement, he used careful movements to disentangle himself from Simone's grasp, replacing himself with a pillow under her arm as he slipped out of the bed.  It was cold in the cottage, despite the small fire he'd started before they'd gone to bed, and he pulled on a pair of sweats and a tee-shirt before grabbing his cigs and dropping back onto the couch again.  

He smoked in contemplative silence, eyes on the laptop sitting atop the coffee table, before he finally reached out and grabbed it.  The browser was still opened to Nathan's Facebook page, his brother's face smiling up at him, and Sam scrolled down a bit to an article that his brother had linked.   _My wife is amazing_ the caption read and one of the people who'd _liked_ it was Victor Sullivan.  Sam wasn't sure how he felt about Nathan and Victor still pal-ing around after all these years and he avoided analyzing his feelings by instead clicking the link.  

It was an article about Morocco on some travel website and for a moment Sam didn't understand what it had to do with Nathan's wife until he saw the author's name.  So, she was a journalist?  Huh.  He scrolled down further, only half reading the article, until he reached the end.  

_Elena Fisher is an American journalist, foreign correspondent, and avid traveler, who has spent time in numerous countries all over the world.  She currently lives in New Orleans with her history buff husband._

Sam's lips pulled into a small smile at that and he ran a hand over his eyes in an attempt to rub away the sting of tears.  He was glad that Nathan was happy, he truly was, but it only made his own loss that much more profound.  And that was _infuriating_.  Hadn't he come to terms with the hand he'd been dealt years ago?  He'd made peace with it, he'd been sure, but being suddenly free and faced with the harsh reality that life had continued on without him . . .

Sam angrily snuffed the cigarette into the ashtray and closed the laptop again.  Maybe having Simone away for a while would be a good thing?  He'd be able to focus on his work instead, and maybe find a lead that would pan out and get him back to his brother sooner.  

That had been Sam's plan since the moment Rafe had explained what he'd wanted in exchange for getting him out of prison but he hadn't counted on Nathan having a wife.  Maybe it was incredibly narrow-minded of him, but he'd sort of expected nothing to have changed; that he'd be able to waltz right back into Nathan's life and they'd just . . . pick up where they left off with a grand adventure to recover Avery's loot from the Gunsway Heist.  But somehow Nathan having a wife just made things that much more complicated.  How could Sam take that happy life that his brother seemed to be leading and throw it all into chaos with his very presence?  He felt guilty for even contemplating it but that guilt wasn't enough to outweigh over thirteen years of being separated.  Nathan would be happy to see him, Sam was sure; he'd want to find Avery's treasure, just like they'd always talked about doing . . .

"Sam?"

Simone's sleepy murmur pulled him from his thoughts and Sam set aside the laptop again.  There was no sense dwelling on all of this tonight; he could figure out what to do about Nathan after Simone left for Durban in a few days.  "Was just having a smoke," he explained, going back to the bed and settling back in next to her.  

"Mm'kay," she sighed, eyes drifting closed as he pulled her in tight to his side and dropped a soft kiss to her temple.

Sam watched her face as her breathing evened out and sleep claimed her again and he couldn't help but wonder if Rafe was right; as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, it _did_ sort of feel like he was getting attached.


	10. Headin' South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm very hesitant to post this chapter, mostly because I researched the hell out of it but still couldn't quite manage to find the information I needed, so I had to infer a lot from what I did find. Basically, I'm not confident that I got the details correct. If someone with the knowledge I need stumbles upon this and wants to educate me (nicely!) then I would absolutely love to have a discussion. 
> 
> Thank you again, to those who've been reading this. <3 Please leave a comment if you're so inclined. I can also be found on tumblr @xturtletrashx

_ _

_Click.  Click.  Click._

Simone's heels beat a commanding tattoo across the floor as she strode through the bank, reaching up to slip the tortoiseshell Jembere sunglasses off her face and drawing the attention of both tellers and customers alike.  From his office, the branch manager appeared, scuttling into view the second he laid eyes upon her.    
  
"Mrs. Mthembu," he greeted, stepping forward to shake her hand.  "Excellent to see you again."

Simone returned his greeting with a smile, "You as well, Mr. Botha."  She slipped the sunglasses atop her head, nestling them into her ginger curls with one hand and gesturing toward the vault with her other.

"Your husband is doing well?" the manager asked, escorting her deeper into the bank.

"Very well, thank you," Simone assured him, the lie coming easily.  "And your wife?"  

The smalltalk continued throughout the familiar process of accessing her safe deposit box and after a few more pleasant exchanges, she was left to open it alone.  There wasn't much inside - documents mostly, like her Shoreline contract and prenup, the deed to her home, all securely wrapped in waterproof plastic - but there were also a series of velvet boxes in varying sizes.  She reached for one of the smaller ones and popped it open to reveal the glint of diamonds inside.  

Like always, Simone's stomach turned with conflicting emotions as she slipped the ring onto her finger; she'd never asked, but there was little doubt in her mind that the three carat diamond had come from Sierra Leone or Angola where Andre had business contacts.  It was stunning, of course, surrounded by another carat of pave diamonds and eighteen karat gold, but hardly the most expensive of wedding rings Andre had gifted - no, those belonged to the two wives who'd come along before her.  Even still, donning a ring that likely bore a conflict diamond had never sat well with her and it was with a bracing sigh that Simone closed the box and locked it again.  

There were a million reasons why she hated coming home and the diamond she had to wear was only one tiny piece of it.  Setting foot on South African soil meant becoming a different person for everyone except Andre.  She dressed differently, spoke differently, carried herself differently, as she stopped being Simone Ross, Security Contractor, and instead did a rather poor impression of Simone Mthembu, Loving and Devoted Wife.  

She bid goodbye to the bank manager, shouldered her hand beaded Nashona purse - supporting  South African fashion designers felt meaningless when she wore a blood diamond on her finger - and returned to the car Andre had sent to collect her from the airport.  

She settled into the buttery soft leather of the back seat, idly acknowledging the driver's polite inquiries with one word answers until he apologized for bothering her and raised the tinted glass between them, leaving her alone to stare out the window at the passing buildings of Johannesburg.  After a few minutes, the quiet was broken by a chirp from her purse and Simone found a warmth settling in her belly as she pulled out her cell to find a text from Sam: _Have you landed yet?_

_About 45 min ago_ , she answered, slipping her feet out of the heels and nudging them across the floorboards with her toes.

_Good flight?_

_Good enough._  She'd flown first class, after all, but she couldn't exactly tell him that.   _Sat next to a snore-er_ , she typed.   _He reminded me of you_

_Ha.  That's cute._

She could almost hear the chuckle in his texted words and Simone found herself smiling at her phone.  On a whim, she brought up her camera, freed one breast from her top and snapped a picture.   _There'll more where that came from_ , she sent along with it.

_Tease_ , came his response a moment later.

_You know it._

* * *

 

"Simone is here!  Mama Simone is home!"

No matter how complicated her feelings when approaching the sprawling six bedroom home, the sight of the little black girl tearing out the front door and across the grass towards her, had all of Simone's hesitation evaporating and, laughing, she swept the six year old up into her arms.  "Oh, my sweet Amahle, I've missed you so much!"

"Did I get bigger?" Amahle asked, wrapping her arms around Simone's neck and fixing her with dark eyes.  

"I think you did," Simone laughed, kissing her cheek before setting the girl back on her feet.

"Father said you were in Scotland; did you bring me anything?"

"Yes," Simone answered, eyes going to the front door as another familiar figure appeared.  She offered her hand to Amahle as they crossed the grass, leaving the driver to unload and carry her bags inside.  "I brought something for everyone," she continued, "but you'll have to wait until after dinner.  It's all packed up in my luggage and I want to say hello to everyone before unpacking."

" _Everyone_ is here for Heritage Day," Amahle said, her tiny hand squeezing Simone's.  "Even Thina and Michael!"

Simone's eyebrows rose in surprise, "Thina and Michael flew in?"  

Amahle nodded, "My nephews are getting so big; Ezra is walking and Jeandre' can count now.  Father was so happy to see them."

"That's wonderful," Simone answered distractedly, her eyes on the front door and the woman waiting there.  "I can't wait to see them either."  She paused, then ventured, "What about Thato?"

"Dunno," Amahle answered with a shrug.  

_Great._  

As they reached the front steps, Simone found herself hesitating and Amahle dropped her hand to scamper ahead and squeeze past the lovely elderly woman waiting there, her pretty face lined with wrinkles and her grey hair neatly styled.  Her jewelry was expensive but tasteful, the lines of her brightly patterned clothing flawlessly cut to emphasize a figure that was still enviable for a woman in her late sixties.

"Lesedi," Simone greeted, starting up the steps.

"We're so happy you could make it, Simone."  Lesedi stepped forward and opened her arms, the diamond on her finger catching the sunshine and reflecting it in a flicker of light just before Simone found herself leaning gratefully into the hug.  She was relieved that it was Lesedi waiting by the door for her when there were so many more likely, and less welcoming, candidates.

"Shoreline is between contracts at the moment, so things are quiet right now," Simone explained, allowing herself to be ushered into the foyer with it's marble floors and elegantly curving banister.  "It seemed a good time to get away for a bit."  For more reasons than one, as her chiming cell phone reminded her.  

"Come into the kitchen," Lesedi urged, linking her arm with Simone's and directing her toward the sound of laughter and voices.  "Iminathi just took her malva pudding out of the oven and you look like you could use something sweet."

Was malva pudding worth having to deal with Iminathi?  It was debateable but unavoidable, so Simone didn't hesitate to follow Lesedi to the gleaming kitchen, where she found Iminathi and her elder daughter Saajidah clad in aprons and dusted in flour.  

"Mama Simone!" Saajidah exclaimed, circling the island to wrap her third mother in a hug.  

"Look at you!" Simone gasped.  It had been six months since Simone had last seen Saajidah and in that time, it seemed she'd grown into a woman!  

Saajidah giggled, "I know!  I'm almost as tall as you now!"

Iminathi cleared her throat, catching her daughter's attention and Saajidah pulled away and tucked her hands behind her back.  "Yes Mama?"

"Why don't you go out to the pool with everyone else and give your mothers a few moments to catch up?"

Simone felt tension crawl up her spine and she was very tempted to say _no, let her stay and see how much of a bitch her mother can be_ but she knew better than to speak out against an elder wife in front of an audience.  So Simone kept her mouth shut as Saajidah nodded and went to do as she was told, disappearing out to the patio and leaving the kitchen suddenly stifling with the promise of harsh words and accusations.  

And Iminathi didn't hesitate to break that strained silence, one hand planted on her hip as she stared across the island at Simone.  "Are you leaving again after this?" she snapped, venom in her tone.

"Yes," Simone answered without hesitation, meeting the older woman's eyes directly.  It was an old argument but usually Iminathi gave her a day or so to settle in before springing it on her.  

Iminathi's jaw tightened, her pretty face shutting down in sudden anger.  "Don't you think it's time to grow up, Simone?  Andre is _sick_ and you ignore your husband's needs to go off and play war with your sister!"

Guilt washed over Simone, fueling her own anger, and she opened her mouth to retort but Iminathi wouldn't be silenced easily and she circled the island with a level of physical aggression that Simone had never seen from the other woman.  Oh, Iminathi had never hesitated to infuse her words with barbs and thinly veiled insults but it had never escalated further than that bitter hostility.  

Right now though, Iminathi was shaking with anger, her hands balled into fists, and Simone was sure that if she gave her even the barest reason, the older woman would take a swing at her.  And Simone almost _wanted_ to, if only to have an excuse to punch Iminathi's perfect teeth down her throat . . .

"You have a duty as Andre's wife," Iminathi continued in a shout.  "You have been married for seven years and you still have yet to give him a child or do more than the barest minimum--"

"Iminathi, ngokwanele!" Lesedi interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension between them and drawing both sets of angry eyes to her.  Lesedi was First Wife and both knew better than to ignore her when she spoke but the chastising words that she snapped out at Iminathi were spoken in Zulu and were far too quick for Simone to catch.

"Whatever sort of arrangement Andre and Simone have is between them," Lesedi continued, her voice level as she switched smoothly back to Afrikaans.  "We are all here this week to celebrate Heritage Day and, more importantly, to enjoy being together as a family.  I'm not going to have it ruined by bickering!"

Simone's eyes stayed on Iminathi, her muscles still taut with readiness - Iminathi was far too close to the knife block for her to relax - but Lesedi took her by the arm and gently lead her toward the door again.

"Simone.  Andre is in his office," Lesedi continued.  "He's looking forward to seeing you."

Simone hesitated, fighting against the desire to goad Iminathi into saying something to turn Lesedi's ire on her again but even angry, she could recognize the immaturity it would show.  So instead, she seized the opportunity to be the bigger person and turned and walked away without a backward glance.  

* * *

 

Saajidah and Amahle weren't the only ones who had aged while she was gone and seeing Andre, there at his desk with dark eyes fixed on the computer screen and oxygen tubes in his nose, Simone felt a deep rush of sadness.  Gone was the robust man with the strong hands, replaced instead by a man who now looked every day of his nearly seventy years.  His hair had gone grey completely, contrasting sharply with his brown skin, and his face far more lined than it had been before, his hands shaking as he tapped away at the keyboard.  

It made her feel guilty, though that was hardly an uncommon emotion for Simone whenever she was home.  At this moment, the guilt was because she hadn't visited the last time she'd been home; she hadn't even told them she was in town.  She'd flown into the country on her own dime, in a cheap red-eye seat, and she'd gone to party with a friend for the weekend before flying back to Scotland and not once had she considered stopping in to see her family.  

It took a moment for Andre to notice her there in the doorway, but when he did, his eyes lit and he smiled.  "Simone," he said warmly, rolling the leather chair back away from the desk and making to get up, but Simone shook her head.

"Don't get up," she said gently, pushing away from the doorframe and stepping into the office.  It was exactly how she remembered it, all dark wood and leather, expensive and polished like something out of an executive high rise.  She went to his side and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips.  His hands slid to her hips, pulling her in closer until she settled down on his lap and he could wrap his arms around her properly.  

"You look beautiful, my love."  He traced a thumb lightly over her cheekbone and Simone was reminded, rather uncomfortably, of Sam doing the same thing only a few nights prior.  He'd told her that he'd miss her freckles and her curls and she'd laughed and called him a sap in a poor attempt at lightening the moment that she'd been unable to stop herself from creating to begin with.  

"I missed you," Simone murmured, and it wasn't a lie.  Not completely.  She did miss Andre, just not necessarily all of the other things that came along with him - two other wives, five children, two grandchildren, corruption and keeping up appearances, _boredom_. . .

She leaned into him, an arm wrapping loosely around his shoulders, and inhaled his scent.  Once upon a time, it had been the most comforting thing in her life; a safe harbor in the middle of a storm but it didn't have the same effect anymore.  His cologne was still familiar, his voice the same, but something had changed and it wasn't until that very moment that Simone realized it.

Andre's arms tightened around her, holding her close as he said softly, "You could stay."

She _should_ stay.  She should call Nadine and tell her that she's not coming back, that she's staying in Johannesburg to be a wife to her husband - the wife that she'd always fallen short of being.  She could give him one last child before the cancer claimed him . . .

Just the thought of being pregnant, of settling into that same old routine, had her stomach turning with dread and Simone knew that no matter how good her intentions, she couldn't make that promise again.  She'd only break it.   _Again_.  She wasn't cut out for this life, as Iminathi never failed to remind her.    

"You know I can't," she whispered back.  

There was a moment of heavy silence, then, "Yes, I do know that."  

Simone pulled back so she could meet his eyes, and the remorse she felt was clear on her face.  "I'm so sorry, Andre."  

He shook his head, "You can't change who you are, Simone.  I have accepted that."

"Iminathi hasn't," she pouted, her mind skipping back to the rage on the older woman's face.  At first it hadn't made sense, but seeing how fast Andre was declining shed a bit of light on Iminathi's outburst.  She was worried about their husband's health and lashing out at the one person who was avoiding having to deal with it.  

He kissed her temple, "Do not worry about Iminathi, my love.  What matters is that you are here now and I would like to enjoy every moment of it."  

Simone's smile was subdued, tinged with sadness and regret.  "We'll make it a week to remember then," she suggested, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

* * *

 

After a day of laughter and conversation, screaming children and enough food to feed a decent percentage of Nadine's army, nightfall brought with it emptiness, silence, and cavernous space that left Simone feeling too antsy to settle down for the night.  So she left her husband sleeping, wrapped a robe around her and, with one last glance at Andre, she slipped from the bedroom and headed down the hallway on bare feet, face illuminated by the glow of her cell phone in her hands.  

There was a message from Nadine, asking how her visit was going, and two from Sam that had her smiling as she turned into the kitchen - and her heart leapt into her throat.  The house was supposed to be empty aside from herself and Andre, his wives having headed back to their own homes for the night and his daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren to their hotel, yet there was a man leaning against the counter, a plate of food in his hands.

"Christ, Thato!" Simone gasped, nearly dropping her phone.  " _Fuck!_ "

One dark eyebrow rose as he watched her over his fork, brown eyes drifting lazily down her body and Simone found herself shifting her weight under his gaze.  "Hi Simone," he said with a smirk.  "Didn't mean to startle you."

_Bullshit_.  Simone's eyes narrowed, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Late flight," he said with a shrug of one lean shoulder.  He lifted his plate a bit, "And I couldn't pass up Mother's piri-piri chicken."

She should leave, Simone knew, but instead she sighed and rolled her eyes, absently setting the phone on the counter before turning away from him and going to the fridge.  She wasn't even hungry, but scanning the contents meant that she wouldn't have to look at him.  Of course, if she didn't want to look at him, she could always just go back upstairs to her husband . . .  

But Simone couldn't quite resist cocking her hip out just a bit, tilting her head to the left just enough for the light from the fridge to highlight her neck in the darkened kitchen.  Playing with fire, just like she had seven years ago.  

The soft clink of expensive china against marble was the only warning she had before Thato was stepping up behind her, his hands sliding around her waist to the tie on her robe and his lips finding her neck.  Simone's breath caught, eyes drifting closed as she froze under his touch and the chill air from the open fridge in front of her was only partially to blame for the tightening of her nipples.  

"Thato," she protested weakly.  God, what the hell was she _thinking?_  

"You look good, Simone," he murmured against her shoulder.  His hand found its way into her robe, fingers slipping between her thighs and he made a noise of approval deep in his chest.  "You're so wet . . ."

Simone's eyes blinked open, that indecision in her belly fizzling away to nothing, leaving her cold and strengthening her resolve.   _What was she thinking?_  "I just fucked your father," she hissed, and he stiffened behind her, pulling back and giving her enough space to drive an elbow back into his ribs.  

Thato's breath left his lungs in a rush and he stumbled back away from her, knocking roughly into the island.  Simone rounded on him, reaching for the knife block and closing her hand around the paring knife - small and deadly sharp - and drove him back against the island with the blade hovering over his throat.  Funny that she'd almost expected Iminathi to pull this exact same move on her earlier . . .

"I told you never to touch me again," Simone growled, teeth bared and brown eyes wild.  

"Si-Simone," Thato gasped out, eyes wide with surprise and panic.  Sweat sprung up on his black skin as he struggled to catch his breath, and she swore she could almost see him weighing the likelihood of this being a bluff.  She wouldn't really cut his throat in his own father's kitchen, right?

"Shut up!" she snapped, hand coming up to shove his head back and bare the long line of his throat.  "Listen to me and listen good," she continued, voice deadly low.  "You are not welcome in this house while I'm here.  Get your things and _get out_."

"Alright," he answered quickly.  "I'll leave."

Simone wasn't done though and she pressed the knife up against his skin, the blade biting in just enough to draw a bead of blood to the surface.  "And if you ever try to touch me again," she threatened, "I'll tear you open like a fucking _gift_."

 


	11. Bleedin' Heart's Cryin'

_ _

_Johannesburg, South Africa 2007_

Her dress was itchy at the collar, the beading rubbing her skin raw with every movement, and her feet ached in the heels she now regretted wearing, but it was easy to ignore those discomforts when faced with such a sobering display of her country's - and her very _family's_ \- history.  

Simone stared up at the huge photographs, black and white displays of the inhumane treatment of her people, and felt her chest tighten with emotion.  Her father had fought apartheid, began building his company in response to it, and his passion for equality had even resulted in _her_ ; a daughter with the red hair of her Swiss-blooded mother and skin both too light _and_ too dark to deny.

"It is difficult to look at, isn't it?"

Simone pulled her eyes from the photos and found a dignified man standing beside her, his dark face lined with age and his hair greying at the temples.  Even in her ignorance, Simone could appreciate the expensive cut of his suit and the way the diamond cufflinks at his wrists caught the artificial light as he offered his hand.  "Andre Mthembu."

Simone's eyebrows twitched upward.  She recognized the name, of course, but still hesitated a heartbeat before reaching out and taking his hand.  "Simone Ross."

Andre graced her with a smile, "You are Isaac's daughter, then?  The younger."

His smile was kind, despite what the rumors said of his deeds, and Simone found herself returning it with a smile of her own.  "I am," she confirmed with a nod.  "The one that he normally leaves at home for things like this," she added with a sweeping gesture of one hand, referring to both the museum and also the guests.

"I am very glad he didn't," he said, eyes lingering on her before going back to the photographs.  "Were you born before or after apartheid ended?"

"Before," Simone answered, following his gaze.  "I was only two when the Peace Accord was signed."

Andre looked at her, "You're younger than I thought."

Simone glanced at him again, meeting his eyes as she said, "Seventeen."  A shrug of one bare shoulder, "I'm almost old enough to vote."

"That is important," he said with a nod.  "Have you registered yet?

Simone's eyes went to the drink in his hand - nearly empty - and she found herself wishing for one of her own.  She'd always been a social creature but this crowd wasn't the sort she was used to and some liquid courage would have gone a long way to smoothing the rough edges from her conversational skills.  "Father had me do it the day I turned sixteen."

"I waited four hours to vote in the 1994 election.  Bringing democracy to South Africa was something I helped to fight for."  He tipped his head slightly, "Your father, as well."

Simone gave a wry chuckle, "He's never let us forget it."

"It is something to be proud of."  The kindness of his smile helped to temper the slightly chastising tone and Simone found herself softening up in response and when he offered her his arm, she willingly took it.

Dark eyes scanned the crowd as Andre escorted her toward the door and Simone spotted her father standing with Nadine, the two of them in deep conversation with a pair of men - rich and well connected and their hands no doubt dripping with blood.  Neither felt the weight of her gaze and with disappointment settling like a brick in her belly, Simone allowed Andre Mthembu, inside director of Sasol chemical company and man of questionable morals, to lead her outside.

Here, concrete and darkness gave way to the scent of vegetation, and the fading light of the sun painted the gardens surrounding the Apartheid Museum in beautiful hues of purple and indigo, and with big words and a silver tongue, a twice-married man nearly old enough to be Simone's grandfather charmed his way into her life.  

* * *

 

_2014_

In eight years, the museum had changed only slightly; exhibitions had grown, while others had shrunk, and new ones had traveled in to temporarily make the museum their home before moving on yet again.  The click of Simone's heels across the concrete floor still sounded the same, though perhaps a bit more confident in their gait, and the lights hanging above her head still cast the same somber sort of glow.  But for as much as things hadn't changed, there was plenty that had.  

Simone's eyes sought her husband's figure - familiar yet so _changed_ \- and she caught his gaze from across the room, gifting him with a smile even as she nodded absently in response to the vapid conversation she'd been roped into.  There was a reason she rarely joined Andre for things like this; both Iminathi and Lesedi were far better at the social aspects of being married to such an influential man and after a week of what felt like non-stop galas and visits with friends, Simone was finding her tolerance wearing thin.   _She_ was one of those things that had changed as well.  

In her hand, her phone vibrated with an incoming text and she glanced down to find a message from Sam: _Call me when you have a second?_

The request had a tiny thrill threading through her belly and she readily excused herself from the two women she'd been chatting with, making her way toward the door and the waiting gardens beyond.  As she walked into the night air, she typed a quick text to Andre, a white lie that she was outside taking a call from Nadine, and then moved away from the small groups who had found their way outside to chat and smoke.  

Once she had some semblance of privacy, Simone tapped Sam's contact info and put the phone to her ear.  It barely rang once before his voice reached her ears, warm and sweet as honey, and laced with . . . _excitement?_  "What's goin' on?" she asked with a confused chuckle, glancing back toward the door to make sure Andre hadn't followed her outside.

"We've got a lead!"  

Simone blinked.  "A lead?" she repeated.  "What sort'uv lead?"

"It might be nuthin'," Sam explained, "but there's a pirate museum in Nassau that claims they have one'uv Avery's maps on display.  It's so cliché, a freakin' pirate map, but--"

His excitement, bubbling through the phone, was infectious and Simone found herself grinning.  "Nassau?" she interrupted.  "We're goin' to the Bahamas?"

"Yeah!"  There was a pause, a change in tone as he sobered, and then said, "Well, I'm . . . I'm goin' with _Rafe_.  We're leaving t'morrow."

The acrid scent of cigarette smoke reached her nose, carried on the air from a man standing not far off and, absurdly, Simone felt her eyes well with tears.  "Oh," she said softly, the word escaping on a disappointed sigh.  

There was a moment of awkward silence and then he said, "I won't get t'see ya before we leave."

"No," Simone confirmed.  Her flight wasn't until tomorrow evening, after breakfast with her family and, afterwards, her annual appointment at the clinic for STD testing and a stop at the bank to drop her ring off again.  Maybe she could skip the appointment and catch the next flight back to see him before he left?  Even an hour would be better than nothing and then she could always arrange an appointment with a clinic in Scotland . . .

"Our flight is first thing in the morning."

Well, so much for that idea.  "Okay," she said, lamely.  "How long ya think it'll take?"

"The flight?"

Simone sighed, "The trip."

"Oh."  There was a bit of background noise that carried through the phone, Rafe's voice shouting something that she couldn't quite make out and Sam's answer, when it came, was distracted.  "I'm not sure.  Couple days maybe?  Kinda depends on what sorta strings we gotta pull to get a closer look at it."

What was a few more days, right?  She could totally handle that.  And hell, it wasn't like she _needed_ to see him, she just still had his shirt . . .

"Sounds good," Simone answered and immediately cringed at the shake in her voice.  "I guess, safe flight, yeah?"

"Yeah," he agreed, then lowered his voice a bit as concern crept into his tone.  "Hey, ah . . . are you alright?  You sound . . ."

"Me?" Simone interrupted, surprised and maybe a bit pleased that he'd noticed.  "Oh yeah, I'm fine.  Just lookin' forward t'getting back; want to see Nadine."  Lie.   _Mostly_.  But she was sort of expecting him to press a bit . . .

"Are you sure?" he followed up.

. . . and when he did, Simone relished in the warmth that spread through her belly.

"I mean, you-- _shit_ , hang on."  Again, she could hear Rafe in the background, his tone sharp and demanding, and Sam answered him with a snapping _give me a fucking minute!_  "Okay, I gotta go," he said, turning his attention back to her and seemingly forgetting about his question.  "I have to pack and Rafe wants to go over some stuff before we leave.  I'll call you when our flight lands and give you an update."  That excitement crept back into his voice, "Simone, this could be it!"

Cold dismay took the place of that warmth, brushing it aside as easily as Sam had just done her and Simone's smile faded as she indulged him with a forced, "Here's t'hopin'."

* * *

 

The goodbyes had been hard this time, with little Amahle clinging to Simone until Lesedi had tugged her away and ushered her toward her waiting siblings.  Then the older woman had pulled Simone in for a hug, putting all the warmth and sweetness she was known for into the gesture, and even Iminathi had done a passable act of expressing how much she'd miss her.  Simone didn't buy it, but it didn't matter anyway.  She was leaving.  Again.

Andre had been the last to wrap her in a hug and Simone found her hands twisting into his shirt as she held him close and breathed in his scent.  "You didn't ask me this time," he said softly into her ear.  

"Your answer hasn't changed in seven years," Simone whispered back.

"That has never stopped you from asking."

"Is your answer going to change?" she asked, hope welling in her chest until it was hard to draw breath.  

Andre sighed, pulling back and meeting her eyes.  "No," he answered.  "Tell Nadine I'm sorry."

Simone sighed and bit her lip, nodding at his answer - the same answer he gave her every time.  "I will."

With a final kiss goodbye, Simone boarded her flight, settling into her first class seat with a sober sigh and a glass of champagne that would hopefully help her sleep.  She had hours before she'd have to tell Nadine that, once again, Andre was refusing to renegotiate the contract that her father had dissolved upon their marriage, the loss of which had led to Shoreline's rather . . . _wobbly_ current state.  No, he wouldn't meet with her.  No, he wouldn't even consider it.   _No_.  

She managed to sleep for most of the flight and was met at Glasgow Airport by Nadine, dressed in fatigues and a smile.  "How was your visit?" she asked, reaching to take one of Simone's suitcases.  

"It was . . . fine."  A vague answer, but then Simone didn't need to get into details with Nadine; her sister knew enough of the complicated relationships to infer the details Simone would no doubt leave out.  

"Iminathi givin' you shit again?"

Simone gave a snort of a laugh as they started out to the waiting Jeep.  "Always."  It was cold outside, a drastic difference to the balmy warmth of South Africa, and she pulled her pink leather jacket tighter around her.  " _After seven years ya still 'aven't given him a child!_ " she sneered, doing a passing imitation of Iminathi's accent and tone.  The words were quickly followed by a bark of a laugh and she added, "Very nearly gave 'im a grandchild, though!"

" _Simone!_ " Nadine laughed as she slid behind the wheel.

"What?" Simone returned, but Nadine only sighed and shook her head.  The dark humor was a coping mechanism, a way to make light of what had been an insanely terrifying piece of her history and Nadine recognized it as such.  

There was a bit of awkward silence as they began driving, questions hanging unsaid between them, until Simone broke it with a confession: "I saw him."  Her dark eyes were focused on the passing scenery, still shadowed with long stripes of darkness as the sun tried to make its way higher in the sky against the press of grey clouds, but she could feel Nadine's eyes on her.

"How did that go?" Nadine asked, her voice soft and gently coaxing.  

"I told him that if he ever touched me again, I'd kill him."  The words were deceptively nonchalant, the charade taken even a step further with a shrug, but Simone knew that Nadine wouldn't buy it.  "I think he believed me this time."

"Good," Nadine stated and the silence fell again, this time settling comfortably as they drove out of Glasgow.  

"I asked Andre about the contract again," Simone said after a while.

Nadine's lips pressed into a hard line.  "He said no?"

"Yeah."  

Nadine's only answer was a nod.  Simone was sure she'd expected as much but she still felt bad that she was, once again, unable to help.  Every time it was a glaring reminder of how very _useless_ her marriage was.  "Sam said they 'ave a lead though," Simone said, glancing at Nadine.  "You won't need the Sasol contract if that all works out."

"Tha's a big _if_ ," Nadine commented, her gloved hand tightening on the steering wheel.  "We'll just 'ave to wait and see what they turn up in Nassau."

 

 


	12. The Color of Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter that probably could have been rolled into the previous one but my ability to plot is sort of shit, so whatevs. Sorry for the huge delay in finishing it; between holidays and general busy-ness, my writing time was crippled. I'd appreciate it if you left a comment or come find me on tumblr at xturtletrashx :D

It was almost deja vu, sitting at a polished bar with Rafe next to him, the tropical heat hanging around them both as they drank, but this time Sam was careful to keep his arm from brushing his companion's and far more conscious of just how _much_ he was drinking, even if Rafe was rather freely tossing them back.  It was a similar situation though, enough so to make Sam uncomfortable with the way Rafe was eying a pair of blonde tourists across the bar, and bringing into stark relief just how much had changed in the last thirteen years.  

Those years had been far kinder to Rafe, his countanance still just as handsome as ever, though Sam could clearly see the proof of aging in the lines around his slightly glassy eyes; his shoulders were a little wider, his middle maybe a bit softer than the lean muscles Sam distinctly remembered.  He glanced at Rafe, brown eyes sliding up to the fresh scar nestled amongst the hair he'd brushed back from his face.  Ironic that Sam had given him that scar scant weeks ago when Rafe had been trying to get him to go somewhere tropical with him and now here they were, though in Nassau rather than Miami . . .

"Waste of time," Rafe huffed, breaking the short silence that had fallen over them.

"Hm?" Sam's eyebrows lifted in question, but he didn't look up from slipping a cigarette out of the nearly empty pack until Rafe's fingertips touching the back of his hand stopped the action.  Sam blinked, eyes going to Rafe to find him waving down the bartender.

"Can we get a couple of those Bahiba cigars I've heard so much about?"

"Of course, sir," the bartender nodded.

"And whatever rum you usually pair with them," Rafe added before the man could disappear.

Rafe's hand was still on Sam's, stopping him from either finishing the motion of pulling the cig out or sliding it back into the pack, and dimly Sam noticed how warm his fingers were - and with that unbidden realization came the pressing need to bat Rafe's hand aside and break the contact.  

Rafe took the not-so subtle hint, pulling his hand back and draining the last of his beer without a word.  

"What were you saying before?" Sam prompted, tucking the cigs back into the breast pocket of his tee shirt in favor of the promise of a cigar.  

"The map," Rafe continued with an edge of frustration in his voice.  "It was a waste of time."  

Sam didn't completely agree with that but he couldn't wholly disagree either.  He could have spent the last day and a half wrapped up in Simone rather than sitting through an eleven hour flight, painfully boring negotiations as Rafe pulled a shit load of strings for them to examine Avery's map outside of the case, only for it all to be a dead end.  But, it had definitely been worth it.  

Sam shrugged, "It was cool though."  He'd felt a very real sense of wonder at being able to hold in his hands an oiled and tattered piece of parchment that Avery himself had once held.  

"Yeah," Rafe agreed with a sullen pout.  "I guess."  

Rafe hadn't felt that same sense of wonder - or if he _had_ , he certainly hadn't made any overt noises that hinted at it.  Which was sort of understandable, actually.  Rafe had been doing this for over a decade, hitting one wall after the next, and hadn't had the thirteen year hiatus Sam'd had.  He was coming into all of this with a fresh enthusiasm that Rafe had long since lost.

The bartender returned then and the exchange was once again paused until they were both puffing away at expensive cigars that had been hand rolled right here in this very hotel - that very _afternoon_ , the bartender told them.  

"Shit, that's good," Sam sighed, leaning back on the high-backed bar stool and savoring the taste, enhanced as it was by the accompanying rum.  

"When was the last time you had a good cigar?" Rafe asked, his tone conversational and relaxed as he leaned back in his own chair, nearly mirroring Sam's posture.

"A good one?" Sam asked with a laugh.  "Never."  Rafe's question dredged up memories that kept a wistful smile on his face as he continued, answering the question for real this time, "Been at least fifteen years."  He chuckled.  "I used to steal them from Victor just to see 'im get his panties all in a twist over it."

Rafe laughed and Sam found himself smiling in response, enjoying the sound of it.  He'd nearly forgotten what Rafe sounded like when he wasn't being a smug asshole.  

"Did his mustache do that bristly thing?" Rafe asked, bringing the cigar up and wiggling it under his nose in a fair impression of a surly Victor.  

Sam laughed, "Are you kiddin' me?  Of course it did!  Y'know, I used to pull that shit with him _just_ to see his moustache get all bristly!"  He shook his head, still chuckling a bit, "Nathan used to get so pissed at me . . ."

There was the slightest shift in the air of their tiny corner of the bar and Sam glanced at Rafe in time to see the smile slip from his face, the amusement fade from his eyes, and the motion of lifting the glass to his lips couldn't quite hide it.  

Touchy subject, his brother, and Sam cleared his throat, subtly shifting his weight on the barstool as the awkward silence settled between them.  A change of subject was in order, but there was a part of Sam that didn't _want_ to change the subject.  He hadn't been able to talk about his brother at all since his release and, if his Facebook stalking was any indication, it was seriously eating at him . . .

_Fuck it._

"What's Nathan been up to, anyway?"

Rafe's scoff was distinctly bitter and he took another long draught of his rum.  "No offense," he said, casting a glance in Sam's direction, "but fuck Nathan."  

Okay, so that wasn't completely unexpected.

"He left me high and dry on this whole Avery thing after you got shot.  Which, _you know_ ," Rafe made a vague gesture with his cigar, "I _get_ that.  Neither of us were at our best.  He was trying to come to terms with your death and I was . . ."  

Sam's eyebrows lifted, "You were what?"

Rafe sighed, lapsing into silence, and Sam watched as his eyes went back to the two blondes across the bar.  "Sam, I wasn't exactly happy about you getting shot," he admitted after a moment, not looking at him.  "I guess I was mourning in my own way too."  

Sam wasn't sure _why_ but it came as a surprise that Rafe had felt anything when he'd 'died'; maybe because he'd always considered Rafe to be rather, well, _emotionally stunted_ .  Sam had sort of expected that Rafe had just shrugged and been like _sucks I didn't get to tap that_.  But just because Rafe had been mourning his loss didn't mean that it was because he'd accepted any sort of responsibility for what had ultimately happened.  And wasn't that what Sam wanted?  Some admittance of guilt or fault?

Rafe waved the cigar again, as if brushing aside the topic, and the gesture brought Sam's full attention back to the other man as he continued.  "Nate left me and then started doing this shit with Victor full time instead."  Rafe sneered, " _Treasure hunting_ .   _Thieves_ , more like."  

"So how'd he make out?" Sam asked, the tightness in his voice betraying his irritation at Rafe's words.  He wanted to defend his brother - it was instinct to do just that - but he also wanted to hear this and that meant biting his tongue until he couldn't any longer.  

Rafe snickered at that, his glower smoothing out a bit.  "Not great.  I mean, he found stuff.  Went up against Zoran Lazarević - you know, the Serbian warlord? - supposedly discovered a few lost cities.  Shambala and Iram of the Pillars . . ."

Sam didn't know who Zoran Lazarević was but it didn't stop the proud smile that appeared on his face.  "No shit," he laughed.

"I mean, _supposedly_ ," Rafe emphasized, as if he didn't believe a word of it.  "He's retired now, I guess.  Married and settled down."  

Sam nodded, unsure of what to say to that.  Instead, he sipped at his rum again and then, a moment later, cleared his throat.  "You ever, I dunno, consider askin' if he wants to join us?"

Rafe's eyes snapped to Sam, dark with sudden hostility, " _Fuck Nathan_ , I said, Sam, and I meant it."

Sam's hands came up in a defensive gesture, "Okay, hey, I get that," he said quickly, not wanting to turn this into yet another fight.  "Things didn't end well with you two--"

"Putting it lightly," Rafe grumbled, tossing back the last of his rum and then gesturing for the bartender to fill 'im up again.  He turned back to Sam suddenly, pointing toward him with the cigar, "We're doing this, Sam.  You and I.  This time _I'm_ getting the credit."

"Yeah, I know," Sam agreed, warily.  "We talked about all this.  I was just askin', okay?"

"Well maybe _don't_ , next time," Rafe snapped.

* * *

 

"What shall we do with a - _hic_ \- drunken sailor?  What shallwedo with a drunken shailor?  What should we--Sam, yer not singin' . . ."

"Sure I am," Sam indulged as, hours later, he steered Rafe down the hallway with a hand on his shoulder, then picked up where he'd left off.  "Way hay and up she rises!"

"Way hay an'yup she rises!" Rafe slurred, footsteps slowing just a bit as he weaved in the general direction of their waiting rooms.

"Right here," Sam said, giving up the sea shanty so he could bodily maneuver his companion past a pair of passing tourists, giving them a slightly apologetic shrug.  "What'd you do with your key?" he asked, patting down Rafe's pockets as he slumped back against the wall.

"Key?"  Rafe blinked at him.  "Wha' key?  Oh, f'my room?"

"Yes, for your room," Sam sighed, hand finding the bulge of a wallet in the back pocket of Rafe's jeans and tugging it to freedom.  "You're not sleepin' in min--"

The words were abruptly cut off as suddenly he was pulled off balance, Rafe's hands pulling him _closer_ so he could press his lips against Sam's in a sloppy kiss.  It was unexpected, messy and unsolicited, and Sam found himself frozen in place with one hand braced on the wall and his brain struggling to catch up with what was happening.  The scrape of stubble along his lower lip seemed to jumpstart his stalled brain and Sam jerked backwards, struggling for a moment against Rafe's eager grip.

"What the _fuck_ , Rafe?" he snapped, backing further away until he felt the back of his tee-shirt brush the wall behind him.  He glared at the man standing across from him, reaching up to wipe his mouth, but the look on Rafe's face had him far more off-balance than the kiss did.  There was something close to _remorse_ there, an expression Sam had never seen on the other man.

"I know I don't know how'tashow it right," Rafe said, eyebrows knitting in earnest sincerity, "but I missed you, Sam.  And I jus-I jus' wanted t'kiss you."

Sam stared across the small distance separating them, the span of a hallway, and had not a single clue what to say to that.  Once again, he was standing in a hotel, utterly speechless after having a Rafe-bomb dropped on him, and Sam could only shake his head and let out a humorless chuckle.  "What do you do with a drunken sailor, Rafe?" he asked, flipping open the wallet and pulling out the key card.  

"Make 'im walk th'plank?" Rafe asked, weakly.  

What?  Sam shook his head.  Those weren't even the lyrics.  "Naw," Sam answered as he crossed the hallway and slipped the card into the reader.  The door popped open, revealing the nicest room they'd had available at such short notice.  "Make him go to bed," he finished, reaching out to catch Rafe's arm and guide him inside despite the weak protests.  The door latched behind them, leaving the room in darkness save for the mix of moonlight and streetlights streaming through the windows.

Rafe's hands seemed to be moving of their own accord, one reaching for Sam's middle, brushing along the scars there under his tee, but when the backs of his knees hit the bed he was quick to sit and even quicker to lie back across it.

"Get some sleep," Sam said tiredly, turning and starting for the door only to pause as Rafe called softly after him.  "What?"  The word came out short, cranky with his need to be away from Rafe just then but Sam wasn't about to apologize for it.  Shit, what were the chances that Rafe would even _remember_ this tomorrow?

"Can I see where'ya got shot?"

Sam's eyebrows twitched upward in surprise but he sighed and lifted the hem of his shirt.  He wasn't shy about the scars, not anymore, but the way that Rafe, with his bloodshot eyes, just _stared_ at them made him uncomfortable.  

It wasn't until he'd smoothed the shirt back down over his midsection did Rafe's eyes finally lift to Sam's face and he broke the silence: "I'm sorry tha'happened t'you."

Sam found himself nodding, a hint of another sigh there on his lips, but all he said was, "Get some sleep, Rafe.  We have a plane to catch in the morning."  And then he made his escape.


	13. Her Breath Began to Speak

"We'll get back to work first thing in the morning," Rafe said as he pulled Sam's duffle bag from the back of the Jeep and handed it over.  

"Yeah, we'll see," was Sam's answer, tired and eager to get away from his traveling companion.  Even in small does Rafe was hard to deal with but non-stop Rafe for two days was more than Sam could handle.  It was funny how things changed.  

He headed away from the castle and toward the water instead, where his little cottage sat at the top of the rocky bluff, one window dimly lit against the darkness.  The cottage was beginning to feel like home, he'd found, and the fact that he so often had enjoyable company while there certainly helped.  

Sam was eager to see Simone and as he walked, he glanced over his shoulder at the castle again but her window was dark.  She was probably sleeping, he assumed, and couldn't help but wonder if she'd come down to see him if he texted her . . .

He slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door to find that he wouldn't have to text her after all, because Simone was curled up in his bed.  She was fast asleep, full lips just barely parted and her arms wrapped around his pillow - and she was wearing the red flannel she'd stolen nearly a month ago.  God, she looked _beautiful_ and Sam's reaction to seeing her, the way his stomach flip flopped and his chest sort of felt like it was caving in, caught him completely off guard.  He'd missed her, of course, but he hadn't realized quite how _much_ until that very moment.  

He set the bag down and closed the door softly behind him, crossing the room to poke at the hot embers in the fireplace before leaning on the arm of the couch to untie his boots.  Oddly enough, he found that he didn't want to wake her.  He just wanted to slip into bed beside her and pull her into his arms and fall asleep with his nose in those untamed curls . . .

So he stripped down to his boxers and did just that, settling in behind her and wrapping an arm around her middle to pull her close.  Her hair smelled citrusy, like lemons maybe, and when she stirred in his arms he pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.  Simone's breathing changed minutely, catching in her nose in the softest snore that Sam could only find endearing and then she was twisting a bit in his arms to peer over her shoulder at him with sleepy brown eyes.

She'd been in a deep sleep and it took a moment for the frown to smooth from her brow, only to be replaced with a smile that made his heart skip.  "You're home," Simone sighed, and Sam found himself grinning in response.  It had been a long time since someone had been so obviously happy to see him.

"Yeah," he smiled, brushing his nose against her freckled cheekbone.  "Just got in."

"Did'ya miss me?" she asked in a whisper.

"Mhm," Sam hummed, his arm tightening around her waist.  "I did."

She reached between them, her hand gripping him gently through the thin material of his boxers, and Sam couldn't help but groan in response, hips flexing on instinct.  His mouth found the side of her neck even as his hand slid up to cup her breast, and in his ear he heard her whisper _prove it._  

She wasn't wearing anything under that flannel, he quickly found out, and after just enough wiggling to get his boxers down his thighs and a condom in place, Sam was working himself inside of her.  There was no foreplay, no playful bedroom talk, just shallow thrusts until her body had made room for him and then, once he was as deep as he could get, he paused and asked on a whim, "Did you miss me?"

And he was expecting a breathy confirmation, some sort of sexy remark to keep the blood pumping, but what he got instead was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.  Sam froze, worry quickly pushing his arousal aside, and he brushed her hair back in an attempt to see her face.  "Simone?  Did I hurt you?"

"I'm a'right," she said quickly, fingers wiping away the shine of tears.  "Keep going."

"What?  I'm not gonna keep going," Sam insisted even as he pulled out of her.  

Simone scooted onto her back, staring up at him with accusing eyes.  "I said keep going," she snapped.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked again, voice rising a bit.  What the fuck was wrong with her?  

Simone huffed and sat up, shoulders bunched in . . . annoyance?  Sam wasn't sure but he'd obviously done something wrong.  Maybe he should have gone down on her?  "Simone?"  

She put her back to him, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and staring down at the floor and Sam wasn't sure what to do, so he stayed where he was, sitting in the middle of the bed in a tangle of sheets with his boxers around his knees and a condom on his dick.  He watched her warily, waiting for some sign that she was ready to talk or was inviting his touch but the minutes stretched in silence until just when he was about to break, she spoke.

"I missed you."

The words were so softly spoken that Sam nearly found himself saying _what?_ simply out of habit than any real need for her to repeat herself.  He'd heard her words but they didn't explain anything and he found himself holding very still for fear of missing whatever came out of her mouth next.

"All I've wanted was t' touch you.  For you t' touch me," she continued softly, her head still bowed as she stared at the floor.  "And then ya did and it was too much . . ."

_What?_  

Sam shook his head, "Simone, I don't--"

She turned to face him, her eyes hard with accusation.  "You're such a bloody idiot," she snapped, grabbing a pillow and flinging it toward him.

Sam reached up and caught the pillow before it connected with him, annoyance bubbling up in response to her aggression.  "What the hell?" he demanded, tossing the pillow aside.  

Her mouth opened, then closed as she reconsidered, and then without a word she was rising to her feet and darting to the bathroom.  The click of the lock sounded deafening in the sudden silence and Sam was left staring at the closed door and wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Minutes ticked slowly by, the faint sounds of sniffling carrying through the closed door, as Sam turned over her actions in his head.  He'd seen her get emotional - that afternoon in Edinburgh came to mind immediately - but this was _different_ and what she'd said . . .

Sam blinked, realization dawning.  Did she mean . . .?  His heart was suddenly racing and, where he would have run for the hills in the past, right in this moment he found himself oddly okay with it.  But he needed to hear her to say it.  He needed to be _sure_ because if this was what he thought it was, then it would completely redefine their relationship . . .

Sam climbed from the bed and threw out the condom, straightening his boxers as he went to the bathroom door and knocked softly.  "Simone?  Can we talk?"  The only answer was a soft sniffle and Sam sighed, gaze drifting around the small cabin and landing on the pad of paper beside the phone.  If she wasn't ready to talk, then maybe she'd be ready to write?  

He made a circuit around the room, collecting the paper, a pen, his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, and then sat down on the floor outside the bathroom door, leaning back against the wall.  On the paper, he scrawled a simple _I still miss you_ and then tore the sheet off and slipped it under the door along with the pen.  

The only answer was silence and, finally, Sam lit a cigarette to help pass the time, mentally preparing himself for a long night of waiting her out . . .

And then the paper appeared again, fluttering across the floor next to his bare thigh, the pen pushed through only a second later. _I miss you too_ , it read.

Putting the cigarette between his lips, Sam took up the pen and wrote, _I'm sorry I upset you_ and then sent it back to her.

_It's not your fault_ was her response.  

_It's not yours either_ , he answered.

_Yes, it is.  We had a deal._

_Sometimes deals need to be renegotiated._

_Are you willing to renegotiate?_

The last time Sam had agreed to a renegotiation it had hardly gone in his favor, but still Sam took a moment to think about that, giving the question the attention it deserved.  He'd never been the boyfriend type, not really - in fact, he'd always been a rather shitty boyfriend - and he'd always prefered things to be string-free.  Contrary to that, the thought of labeling this, or at the very least them both allowing it to naturally progress without fighting it, didn't send him into a panic.  Did he love her?  Maybe?  Sam wasn't sure he'd ever loved anyone in his life, aside from his mother and his brother, but he was certainly _fond_ of Simone.  She was so full of life and laughter, and the way she stuffed her hands up into his armpits when she was cold made his stomach feel a bit butterfly-ish and her smile made his heart skip a beat . . .

_Yes_ , he answered.

Another beat of silence passed and then the lock clicked and the door opened and Sam glanced up to find Simone staring down at him.  Her eyes were red, her hair wild around her shoulders, and there was a hesitation in her step as she crossed the threshold.  "I'm sorry," she said softly.  Her hands were twisted up in the too-long sleeves of the flannel, fingers laced together in front of her as she absently massaging one thumb into the opposite palm.  

Sam reached out and wrapped a hand around her calf in a subtle invitation for her to move closer to him and she did, stepping over him to settle down onto the floor with her shoulder and arm pressed against his.  "You don't have to apologize," he said, opening the conversation.

Simone didn't answer right away, just reached out and plucked the cigarette from his hand and put it between her lips.  It reminded him of that first night they'd met and brought into stark relief just how far they'd come in such a short amount of time.  

"I've never been in love," she admitted, blowing smoke from her lungs and handing the cig back.

Sam took a long drag, tipping his head back to rest against the wall.  "Me either."

"What are we gonna do?"

Sam stared up at the ceiling, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.  "Renegotiate?" he suggested.

Simone chuckled, jostling him lightly with her shoulder.  "We can't make this official," she said.  "Like with labels an' all that junk."

"No?"  Sam shrugged.  He could live with that.  It would probably make things hell with Rafe and Nadine, anyway.  "So . . . maybe just acknowledge that it's--"

"A thing?" Simone finished.

Sam chuckled.  "Yeah, a _thing_."  His hand found her thigh on instinct, seeking out her skin in this moment of intimacy and she leaned closer to him, pressing her lips against his bare shoulder.  "So you've never said it?" he asked after a moment.

Simone shook her head.  "Not meaning it."  She paused and, for a moment, he thought she was gearing up to make her confession but instead she said, in a small voice, "D'ya love me?"

Sam turned his head and found her watching him closely, unsure of how he should answer.  "Maybe," he answered honestly and was relieved to see acceptance in her eyes instead of insult or anger.  "I'm not sure yet."

"I can live with that," she said, lips pursing to kiss his shoulder again.  "Maybe tell me if anythin' changes, yeah?"

Sam smiled, "You'll be the first to know."

* * *

 

That surety came slowly, or maybe it was the process of acceptance that took him a while, but as the weeks passed and barriers continued to fall between them, Sam found those feelings working themselves out.  His birthday came and to celebrate the big forty-two Simone bought him a new motorcycle.  Well, it wasn't _new_ but the fact that she'd gotten him a fixer-upper just proved how well she was getting to know him and between chasing down dead end leads, he gave the Triumph Bonneville some much needed TLC.

Christmas saw Rafe back to New York to spend the holiday with his parents and most of the mercenaries flew home to celebrate with their families, which meant a break from research and hunting for leads.  Those who stayed in Scotland - Simone, Sam, Nadine, and a handful of Shoreline mercs - had their own version of Christmas with food, drinks, stories, and drunken shenanigans.  Sam had enjoyed himself, but the subdued festivities hadn't distracted him from the aching regret of not spending his first Christmas as a free man with his brother.  It made him wonder if he was making the wrong choice, if he should just leave and go to Nathan instead, but then what?  They had no leads and Rafe would be right on his tail, seeing red . . .

And so the idea was pushed to the back of his mind to maybe be examined again later, after the New Year, after winter passed into spring, after he'd figured out exactly what was going on between himself and Simone . . .

* * *

 

"God, that's beautiful, innit?" Simone asked, eyes on the sun as it hovered just above the horizon.  

"Yeah," Sam answered, but his own eyes weren't on the streaks of pink and purple painted across the London skyline, but rather Simone's profile and the wistful sparkle in her eyes as she watched the sun sink steadily lower.  They were going to dinner after this and she was dressed for it, in a short, clingy dress in bold African patterns and she'd claimed his denim jacket to drape over her shoulders in an attempt to ward off the late spring chill in the air.  Her hair had been semi-tamed, straightened and then curled again so they fell in loose waves instead, but that didn't stop the fine hairs at her temples from coiling in the humidity.  It was a small imperfection and he loved it.  

She must have felt him watching her, because she turned to him then and her face broke into a grin.  "What?" she laughed.  "Were you starin' at me?"

"No," Sam chuckled and now it was his turn to cast his gaze out over the city.  Simone's grin didn't fade though and he could see her - _feel_ her - watching him, so he shrugged and laughed.  "Maybe."

"It's cause you want to kiss me in front'uv the sunset, yeah?" she teased, sidling closer until she was pressed against his side.  

Sam wrapped an arm around her hips, pulling her in so he could do just that.  It was a gentle kiss, all soft lips and teasing tongues, and Simone went up on her toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck.  It was tempting to bring it to the next level, to let that sudden passion overwhelm them, but they were hardly alone hanging off the side of the London Eye, and Sam doubted the elderly couple on the opposite side of their capsule would appreciate it.  

"I wish I wasn't leaving," Simone murmured against his lips.

"I wish you weren't either," he answered, pulling back enough to meet her gaze.  

It was why they'd taken this impromptu road trip, winding their way down from the castle in the Highlands of Scotland to downtown London, because Shoreline had a standing security contract in France and it was Simone's turn to rotate in.  

"Three months feels like a long time."

"Three months _is_ a long time," Sam corrected, hands smoothing down her back to come to rest on the swell of her ass.  "But we'll talk every night."  And it would give him time to focus on Avery's treasure, which would make Rafe happy; it was pretty obvious that he'd been frustrated with Sam's distraction lately.  

Simone grinned up at him.  "Just don't forget me, yeah?"

"Right," Sam laughed.  "Like that'd happen."

* * *

 

With a bag slung over her shoulder, Simone made her way down the hallway, the squeaky wheels of her suitcase echoing off the castle walls.  If she hurried, she'd have just enough time to have breakfast with Sam before having to leave to catch her flight . . .

"Simone, do you have a minute?"

She paused, drawing to a stop as Rafe came up behind her.  "Sure Rafe," she answered, putting on a friendly smile as she turned to face him.  

He didn't slow his approach and Simone found herself retreating a step as he plowed into her personal space.  "We had a deal," he hissed, eyes dangerously dark and his voice low to ensure his words wouldn't be overheard.

Simone straightened her shoulders, refusing to give another step even in the face of an obviously angry Rafe Adler.  "I 'aven't gone back on our deal, Rafe," Simone answered, careful to keep her tone even and her own volume low.

"You've taken this too far," he continued.  "I told you to watch him and, fine, if sleeping with him helped with that then so be it.  But that's not what this is anymore, is it?"

No, it wasn't.  Simone was in love, head over heels, and she was pretty sure Sam was heading in that same direction even though he hadn't actually vocalized it.  "What's it matter?" she asked.  "I'm still doing what'chu asked.  He's not any closer to running off on ya than he was eight months ago."  

"I've seen the way he looks at you, Simone," Rafe growled as he glared down his nose at her.  

He was trying to intimidate her and while there was a part of her that wanted to shrink back from that spark of insanity in his eyes, Simone refused.  If she had to, she could handle herself against one spoiled prick.  "Whatsa matter Rafe?  You jealous?" she returned, one eyebrow lifting in question.

His face smoothed out suddenly, shutting down as the emotions faded and it was unnerving to watch.  "Perhaps I should tell Nadine not to bring you back after this."

Simone's heart fell into her stomach, her breath catching in her chest, but it was an empty threat.  She reached up and planted a hand in the center of Rafe's chest, forcing him back a step.  "Tha's not up t'you, Rafe," she answered.  "You may be paying for Shoreline's services, but this company still belongs to my sister."  

His face was still dangerously blank and, for a moment, Simone was sure he was going to lash out at her but before she could give him a chance, she ended the conversation: "Now back off; I've got a plane t'catch."  

Simone swore she could feel the heat of Rafe's anger beating against her back as she turned and walked away, but she'd be damned if she were going to give him the satisfaction of looking back.  


	14. She Was a Fiery One

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It was a sentiment that Sam had always had always thought was bullshit.  For most people the pain of being away from someone faded enough to only surface once in awhile, like a joint that only ached when it rained, but for Sam it lingered.  It wasn't an infection, festering and growing worse, but rather a cancer that had slowly eaten away at him a bite at a time.  In his experience, absence _hurt_ , but then over time that hurt scabbed over and the pain became bearable.  

It was different this time.  Maybe it was because he was free or because he knew that Simone was coming back to him, but over those few months, Sam found his heart growing fonder indeed.

_Theres a dog tied to the street light outside._

_I want to pet it_

_But I can't leave my post_

_By the time i'm off duty it'll be gone_

_Doggone it_

_LOL :p_

Simone texted the way she spoke, random little bursts of nonsense or stream of consciousness that often had Sam grinning down at his phone.  It annoyed the hell out of Rafe, who took every opportunity to huff and sigh and roll his eyes whenever Sam's attention was diverted to the vibration of his phone.  He ignored it because no matter what Rafe thought, Sam looked forward to every moment he got to share with Simone - even from countries away.

_You should steal it,_ he typed back.

_Is that your solution for everything Sam Drake?_

He chuckled.   _I am a thief_

"Are you done?" Rafe asked, deadpan.

Sam glanced up, amusement still sparkling in his eyes, and he wrapped his hand around the phone, screen to palm so he wouldn't be tempted to look at it again.  "Yeah, I'm done," he answered, reaching for pint sitting on the pockmarked table in front of him.

Rafe gave him a long look, his annoyance made all the clearer by the subdued sigh that expanded his chest.  "So what do you think?" he asked, making a vague gesture with his nearly empty glass.

Shit.  What had Rafe been saying?  Something about estates . . . ?  "About what?" Sam asked after a beat of expectant silence.

"Christ Samuel," Rafe snapped, his pint landing back on the table with a dull _thud_ .  "Could you _maybe_ focus a bit?  You've spent half of dinner staring at your goddamn phone."

Sam couldn't stop his eyes from rolling but he did manage to stop himself from looking at his phone as it vibrated in his hand.  "I'm _here_ ," he fired right back.  "I'm listening."

"Bullshit!"  The word was punctuated by an open-handed slap to the table, their forks rattling against empty plates and drawing the curious eyes of every patron at Allanach's.

Rafe and Sam were hardly unknown faces at the hole-in-the-wall pub but aside from some polite back and forth with the regulars - or sitting through the occasional long-winded tale from the barkeep - they tended to keep to themselves.  They'd come down every other week or so, have dinner and a few pints, talk quietly at their corner table and then be on their way and while Sam's conversations with Rafe often got a bit heated, this was the first time his partner had exploded under _this_ roof.  Oddly enough, it wasn't something Sam wanted the regulars to have to witness, but he wasn't sure if it was for their sake or Rafe's.

"Rafe," Sam started, warning in his tone.  "I'm _listening_."

"She's becoming a distraction, Sam," Rafe continued, leaning aggressively over the table and ignoring the attention they were drawing.  "You need to end it and get your head back in the game."

Was he fucking serious?  Sam wasn't going to end things with Simone just because _Rafe_ wanted him to!  His eyebrows drew downward, offense tightening his posture, but he pulled in a steadying breath and rose to his feet.  He lifted the pint to his lips and drained the last of it, then set the glass back down and announced, "I'm leaving."   

"Samuel!"

He didn't stop walking though, weaving his way through the tables and heading straight out the door.  The night was cool but the humidity had mist hovering just above the cracked cement, swirling around Sam's booted feet as he crossed the street and ducked into the nearest alleyway.  

Rafe was a fucking asshole, Sam silently fumed, trading the phone in his hand for his lighter and cigs instead.  His head was just as much in the game as it ever was - even more so now!  Now he had a plan for his cut of the treasure, which mostly involved buying something nice for Simone, like a ring or something.  They could live in her little beach house in Durban and use the money to travel all around the world.  Maybe he could get Nathan and the wifey to go with them sometimes too . . .

But . . . he couldn't deny that Simone complicated things.  He'd always planned on ditching Rafe once he had a solid lead on the treasure, but that meant ditching Nadine, and he had no idea how Simone would feel about that.  Would she leave her sister behind and go with him?

He hadn't intended it when he'd left the pub, being more focused on getting out of sight before Rafe paid the bill and followed him, but his feet had brought him back to the beach where he and Simone had ended up the first night they'd met.  He hopped down off the seawall and into the sand, remembering the way the rain had dripped down the freckled curve of her nose, how her fingers had felt brushing along the sensitive skin below his belly button, and the now familiar taste of her as he'd pressed his face between her thighs . . .

She was coming home in less than a week - just in time for their one year 'anniversary' - and Sam couldn't help but wonder when Scotland had become home?  When had _Simone_ become home?  She was though.  She was the warmth that drew him in, like a moth to a flame, and maybe it was time he admitted it?

Sam exhaled a long stream of smoke, his eyes on the waves as he made his decision.  He wasn't sure what his next move was where Rafe and the treasure were concerned, but he was sure that he was going to tell Simone that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her, that after they found Avery's treasure they could settle into a normal life: paying bills and Thanksgivings shared with Nathan and Elena and maybe, someday, kids . . .

It wasn't a future he'd ever imagine for himself, but in prison it had been hard to even imagine standing on a beach and smoking a cigarette.  It had been hard time imagine having someone like Simone in his life and it had sure as hell been hard to imagine being free again because Sam had never expected it would happen.  But here he was.  

And there he stood, until the last evening light faded from the sky and the stars twinkled into existence and he'd run out of cigarettes.  

* * *

 

Sam had been counting down the days, the hours, the minutes, until Simone's plane would touch down in Scotland.  He was eager, his stomach fluttering with butterflies as he waited and he figured that this must have been what kids felt like on Christmas morning when they didn't have a completely fucked up home life or were living in an orphanage.  

Those three months alone had felt like forever and the need to touch her skin, smell her hair, had consumed him like a junkie needing a fix.  And when he spotted her wild red curls, her freckled skin, the tiny sundress in every color of the rainbow, there was no stopping his feet from moving forward, every step bringing him closer to his perfect drug.

She met him halfway, dropping her grip on her bags to throw her arms around his neck and literally leap into his arms.  Sam had been ready for it though.  He'd played his moment over and over in his head non-stop, imagining every possible scenario for their reuniting, but always _this_ was the one that felt right.  It was just so very _Simone_.

He allowed himself to be overwhelmed by her, savoring every kiss and the feel of her body pressed against his.  Her bare thighs wrapped around his hips had him wanting to pin her to the nearest wall, to be so close he was _inside_ her.  

And he wasn't the only one cultivating those thoughts because just then, Simone moaned against his lips, "God Sam.  I want you _so bad_."

A small noise of longing escaped the back of his throat, but as desperate as he was to be inside her, they'd both have to wait.  "Think you can wait 'til we get back home?" he asked, eyes focused on those full lips that he was longing to kiss again.

Simone's nose wrinkled and those pretty lips twisted into a pout as she whined, "Do we 'ave'ta?"  

Yes, they did.  But first Sam indulged her for another minute, holding her close and kissing her breathless, before pulling back with a laughing, "Hold on.  Wait a second.  I have a surprise for you."

Apparently that was a suitable distraction because a wiggle of hips proved she was ready to be lowered back to her feet and she fixed him with a delighted smile.  "Oh really?" she wheedled, pressing closer and slipping her arms around his middle, "What sorta surprise?"

"It's in the Jeep," Sam said, fingertips brushing a curl back from her face.

Her eyes lit with excitement.  "Well, let's go then!"

With bags in hand, Sam led the way out of the airport and he found he had trouble keeping his eyes off of Simone.  Everything about her was captivating, from the brush of her dress against her upper thighs to the bounce of her breasts under the thin material, to the way the sun highlighted her burnished skin and the sparkle in her eye as she caught him looking.  God, she really was beautiful and as eager as he was to get her into bed, he was just as eager to simply share space with her, and especially to give her the present he'd gotten her.  

"You're lookin awfully pleased with y'self, Sam Drake," she challenged, bumping him playfully with her hip.  

"I have good reason," he said with a smug smile.

Simone's eyebrows lifted, " _Ja?_  Is that so?"

He looked past her to where the Shoreline Jeep was parked and she turned to follow his gaze.  Sam watched as her brown eyes widened, her mouth falling open only seconds before her hands flew up to cover it and she let out a delighted squeal.  The noise was answered with a high-pitched _yip!_ from the puppy waiting on the driver's seat, buff-colored paws hooked over the half-door and a tail wagging wildly enough to shake his entire body.

"You got me a puppy!"  

Abandoning her bag, Simone skipped toward the Jeep, hands reaching eagerly for floppy ears as she was met with messy kisses.  He'd tied leash was tied to the steering wheel to keeping the pup from escaping the Jeep, and Simone quickly unclipped it so she could scoop the puppy into her arms.  "Oh Sam, he's perfect!" she gushed, whirling to face him as he reached the Jeep a half step behind her.

There was something so pure in that moment, as Simone stood there cradling the wiggling puppy to her chest, and if there had been any doubt in his mind before, it was completely gone now.  He wanted this woman.  He didn't care that she was - arguably - too young for him, or that she was literally a soldier for hire, or that she was the one thing truly keeping him from seeking out his brother.   _He wanted her._  He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

"I love you, Simone."

The words passed his lips without consent, coming out with a somber earnestness that he'd have been embarrassed about with anyone else, but Simone's face was softening, her lips parting as she tipped her head and asked, "F'real?"

Sam laughed, his hand coming up to brush fingertips along her cheekbone, "Yeah, for real.  I told ya that you'd be the first to know."

She smiled and leaned into his touch.  " _Ja_ , ya did.  And I love you too, Sam Drake."

* * *

 

_"Vriend."_   

Sam's eyebrows lifted in question, "Hm?"

"That's his name," Simone explained, nodding to the Cocker-Border Collie mix trotting along at their heels.  

Sam wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist.  "Friend?"

Simone chuckled, "No, _Vriend."_   

"With a V?"

"Mhm.  It's Afrikaans."

"Oh," Sam answered.  Well that made sense.  "So it means 'friend'?"

Simone laughed, "Anyone ever tell ya you're a smart one?"

"Every now and then."

He ran his hand idly along the stones of the St. Dismas cathedral as they walked, his gaze drifting upward to the towers stretching into the sky like broken fingers.  It was familiar by now, every crag and crack, and Sam found that he'd grown fond of the structure; it was as much as a part of home as the little cottage where he and Simone had just spent a solid day getting reacquainted.  

"We should climb it," Simone announced, beckoning Vriend closer so she could clip the leash back to his collar.  

Sam's eyes went to the dog, then to Simone.  "Now?"

" _Ja_."  She looped the end of the leash over a broken wooden post - likely part of a fence that hadn't survived the centuries - and then turned to him with an expectant look.  "Unless ya scared?"

Sam's eyes narrowed.  "That," he said, "sounds suspiciously like a challenge, Ms. Ross."

She shrugged one bare shoulder as she backed up, critical eyes studying the wall in front of them for a suitable handhold.  "Unless ya not up for it," she cajoled.

"Ha!" Sam's eyes went to the wall as well, immediately spotting a broken stone that he could without a doubt reach.  "Not up for it, my ass!"  Without waiting for her, Sam jumped and caught the handhold, levering himself up to the nearest lancet before glancing back down to find her shimmying up behind him.

"Filthy cheater," she joked as she reached his side.  "C'mon then, let's keep goin'!"  And, without even a hint of fear or hesitation, she jumped for the string-course above.

By the time they reached the top of tower, both were sweating and coated in a film of dust and Simone was sporting a bruised scrape on one bare knee, but their smiles proved just how much they'd enjoyed the physical activity - and the ensuing adrenaline rush when either chanced a look down.  

They settled on the pinnacle, shoulder to shoulder and legs dangling off, and for a moment neither spoke, out of breath from the climb and speechless from the view.  And what a view it was, with the mid-morning sun reflecting off the ocean in shimmers and sparkles, and the sky a brilliant blue.  From their perch, Sam felt as if the horizon stretched on forever and all he'd have to do was squint to get a glimpse of eternity . . .

"You're pretty spry for your age."

Sam turned his head to find Simone staring out over the waves, her lips pursed in a teasing smile.  "I'll have you know," he said, feigning offense, "that this is _not_ the first tower I've climbed."

She looked at him, pleased that her ribbing at gotten a reaction, "Oh no?"

"See, climbing sort of . . . runs in the family," he explained, shifting his weight so he could pull out his pack of cigarettes and shake one to freedom.  "Nathan could climb anything."  He popped open the lighter and touched the flame to the cig, eyes cutting toward Simone again as he inhaled.  "Ever since he was a little kid.  Bookcases, the kitchen cabinets, the towers of cardboard boxes that our shit was always packed in," he shrugged.  "Anything he could climb, he would."

Simone was watching him carefully, like she always sort of did when he brought up his brother, and her question was a gentle prompt, as if afraid she'd spook him and he'd shut down.  "And you 'ad to keep up with him?"

Sam smiled, chest puffing out a bit as he boasted, "I was the only one who could!  I taught him everything he knows."  Mostly, anyway.  Until _Sully_ came along and smooth-talked his way into their lives.

"Sounds like you were close," Simone commented, absently wiping a bead of blood from her knee.  

"We were all we had."  Again, until fucking _Sully_ showed up.  He glanced at Simone again and asked, "What about you and Nadine?"

"What about us?"  

There was no hostility in the question, though; nothing that gave Sam the impression that she didn't want to talk about it, so he pressed on.  "I know she's a lot older than you and things were sort of weird when you moved in with her and your father . . ."

Simone was quiet for a minute, as if deciding how much she wanted to share, and Sam was beginning to think that he'd read her cues wrong but then she broke the silence.  "Things're . . . _complicated_ with Nadine," she started.  "We love each other, course, but I think she blames me for what 'appened to our dad and why Shoreline is in the mess it is now."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.  "I don't understand," he admitted, feeling like he was only getting half of the story.  

She sighed, eyes drifting out to the horizon again as the wind picked up, sending her curls in every direction.  "I've made a lotta mistakes, Sam.  Made lots of bad choices . . ."

"You're not the only one," he said with a wry smile.  "But what do you mean about Shoreline?  And how does it have anything to do with you?  You're just a contractor, right?"

She nodded, "Yeah, but it was 'cause of me that we lost one of our biggest contracts."  Her hand drifted her her ribs, pressing just under her breast, "Dad beat me bloody for it."

Realization came quickly and with it, searing hot anger.  "The scar on your ribs?" Sam asked, the words coming out harsh, almost demanding.  "That's from your father?"

"His belt buckle."

Her voice was soft and her freckled cheeks red with . . . what?  Embarrassment?  Shame?  He wasn't exactly sure and it was hard to hazard a guess when she wouldn't even look at him.  "What happened?" he asked, but she was shaking her head.

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam."  

_He_ wanted to talk about it though and he wasn't even sure why; it wasn't like he could do anything about it.  It was in the past.  Hell, her father was _dead_.  He had a pressing need to understand though, because all of these puzzle pieces Simone was sprinkling around them were building up to a picture of who she was and, despite their love for each other, that picture was still frustratingly unfinished.  So he made one last plea before giving up and allowing a topic change, just a simple, "Are you sure?"

"I know it may not seem like it, but what 'e did was actually a good thing."  

_Bullshit_.  Was she trying to convince herself?  

"He was helpin' me, in his own way."

Sam was shaking his head though, refusing to believe that there was _ever_ any sort of justification for beating the hell out of your child with a fucking belt.  He _knew_ because he'd been on the receiving end of that same sort of treatment before being dumped in an orphanage.

Simone ignored his silent protest, instead continuing with a vague explanation.  "I was eighteen and I had gotten into trouble - remember those mistakes, I mentioned? - and after that, I wasn't in trouble anymore."

It didn't make a lick of sense and Sam opened his mouth to tell her as much, but she was turning critical eyes on him, "How 'bout this?  You tell me why you went to prison and I'll tell you what 'appened with my father and Shoreline?"

Sam blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in focus from her past to his.  Did he want to know that badly?  Yes, but telling her what Rafe did could open a can of worms he wasn't ready to deal with.  Not _yet_.  "I was innocent," he said after a moment, and he could tell by the surprise on Simone's face that she hadn't expected him to say anything.  Or maybe she didn't believe that he was actually innocent.  "Someone else did something really bad and I did their time."

A line appeared between Simone's brows, "But how?  Were you protecting them?  Was it your brother?"

Sam shook his head, "No.  Well, sorta.  Nathan was there; he was a part of it but he wasn't the one who committed the crime.  I wouldn't've taken the fall for this person, except that I didn't have a choice."  Now it was his turn to touch his abdomen, where three dimpled scars resided.

"Because you got shot," Simone finished.  

Sam nodded.  "I got shot and they had to leave me behind, so I got saddled with the prison sentence."

"That's awful," she said, and there was no faking the sympathy on her face or in her voice.  "I'm sorry, Sam."  

He shrugged, "It is what it is."  Then he bumped her lightly with an elbow, "Your turn."

She was quiet for a minute, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she clearly considered her words, but when she spoke it wasn't a confession, but rather a plea: "Please, Sam?  Please just let it go?"

Forgotten in his hand, his cigarette had burned down to the filter and Sam flicked it into the air, sending it spinning toward the ground a hundred feet below them.  There was an unmistakable annoyance to the action; hadn't they had a deal?  And he was ready to argue that point with her but there was a vulnerability to her posture that had that resistance fading.  

"Alright," he acquiesced, lifting both hands into the air in surrender.  "Alright, I'll let it go."  Could he though?  His lips pressed into a firm line, "Just--"

Simone sighed, "Sam . . ."

" _Just_ , if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen, okay?"  He reached for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and coaxing her closer, "I won't judge or anything.  I'll just listen."

"What if I never want to talk about it?" she asked, settling in under his arm.  "What if I just want to forget it ever happened?"

It would bother him, Sam knew, not ever having the full picture, but he could respect it.  It wasn't like he'd told her the full reason of why he'd gone to prison and there wasn't a chance in hell he'd ever share the details of his time in Panama with her.  Those details were his burden to bear, his demons to wrestle with, and maybe Simone felt the same about her father.  Whatever her reasons, if Sam wanted Simone then he'd have to live with her silence.  

"Then we won't ever talk about it," he assured her, pressing a kiss to those copper curls.  

"Thank you."  Simone tipped her head back so she could see his face, "How'd I get lucky enough to find you?"

Sam smiled, the hand draped over her shoulder sneaking its way into her tanktop.  "Karma," he decided with a decisive nod.  "And my raw masculine magnetism."

"Ha!" Simone laughed, pulling his hand down further to cup her breast.  "More like I took pity on ya."

"Pity?" Sam repeated, affronted.  

" _Ja_ , pity."  She nodded, "I took one look atchya and I could tell you 'adn't been laid in ages!"

" _Ouch_ , babe."

 


	15. Crushed Beneath Her Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize for the huuuuuge delay on this! I had to rewrite almost this entire chapter multiple times (and, let's be honest, I'm still not 100% happy with it) and life in general got a bit cray, both in good ways and bad. Some good things: my family is all happy and healthy, I'm now an official roller derby player for realz, complete with name and number! Some not so great things: my car is dead, my desktop PC is dead, my laptop is limping along, I'm going to have to move my family out of our home within the next 6 or so months, money is always tight, etc. BUT, I'm determined to finish this fic and only have a few chapters left to write so please bear with me! 
> 
> If, during the lull between chapters, you're itching for some Sam and Simone you can always head on over to my tumblr (xturtletrashx) and cruise my 'Samone' or 'Samone inspiration' tags. Also! You can give their playlist a listen, which can be found at https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDaOYS2c1WCPQNteAyRRVoBEqIdNeigEr

Sam had always sworn that he wasn't any good at relationships. They were too much work and always seemed to come with excessive amounts of drama and bullshit and a particular lack of freedom that Sam had never been able to stomach. It had always been much easier to just find someone warm to spend a night with, or someone interested in nothing more than a week long fling, and if he was really itching for some company there were hookers in every city the world over if one knew where to look. In comparison, the payoff of a relationship had never really seemed worth it.

_Yet_ , in the months since Simone had returned from France, since Sam had decided that this was, indeed, worth the payoff, the two had settled into a relationship and this new version of normal was something Sam found himself surprisingly comfortable with.

Simone had given up her room at the main castle, instead moving into Sam's little cabin where she'd slowly taken over. Her clothes hung in the closet, a brightly colored contrast to his earthy-toned plaids and denims, and her jewelry and tiny bottles of nail polish had taken up residence on the dresser. In the shower, her shampoo and body wash lined the wire racks, nestled next to the more masculine soap that Sam preferred.  

After so long in prison though, Sam was used to sharing his space and while the box of tampons in the medicine cabinet had given him momentary pause, it was easy to fall back into the habit of cohabitating. He just couldn't bring himself to _mind_ this invasion of personal space any more than he minded the way she wrapped herself around him when they climbed into bed for the night.  

In short, it all felt _right_.  

"Hey Simone?" Sam started as he stepped out of the shower and reached for the towel.

"Ja?" she answered, her voice carrying through the small cottage and through the open bathroom doorway.

"So after we find Avery's treasure," Sam continued, wrapping the towel around his waist and stepping up to the sink to wipe away the condensation that had fogged the mirror. "Where do you want to go?"

There was a beat of silence, then, "Like, where in th'world?"

"Yeah," Sam prompted. There was a can of shaving cream on the edge of the sink and he squeezed a dollop into the palm of his hand, smoothing the lather across his throat. "We'll be rich, so we can go anywhere you want."

Simone chuckled, "Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

"Hm . . ."  

Razor in hand, Sam took a step back from the sink, craning his neck until he could see her through the open doorway, perched on the couch with Vriend curled up next to her. She had one bare foot propped on the coffee table as she painted her toenails lime green, her lower lip snagged between her teeth as she considered his question.  

"Iceland."

Sam blinked. "Iceland? Really?" He'd expected some place tropical and warm, bright and breathtaking--

"I want to see the Northern Lights," she explained further and it all made sense. Of _course_ she did.  

"Okay," he readily agreed, turning his attention back to the mirror. He'd never been to Iceland and there was no doubt that the Aurora Borealis was something to see before you died. He ran the razor along his throat, stopping just shy of the short beard he'd decided to grow for the winter. He could probably keep it a while longer if they went to Iceland . . .

"Where d' _you_ wanna go?" Simone asked, stepping into the doorway and leaning one shoulder against the jamb.  

"New Orleans," Sam answered without hesitation, his eyes going to Simone's reflection in the mirror. Fuck, she looked beautiful. Her pants were snug leather - slick and begging him to touch - and the shirt she wore was shimmery gold, plunging in the front and distinctly lacking in a back, held in place by delicate chains.  

"To see your brother."  

He pulled his eyes from the taut expanse of tanned belly and he found her watching him with a knowing look on her face. He nodded. "Yeah, to see my brother."

She nodded in return, pushing away from the wooden frame and stepping into the bathroom on freshly decorated feet. "We can do that." She came up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and her body warm against his back, then pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. "I'd like t'meet him."

"You will," Sam assured her, automatically. He rinsed the razor under the water, absently running a hand over his throat in a distracted search for any missed prickles, but his mind was occupied by thoughts of Nate and Simone meeting. Nate would like her, Sam knew. His brother would appreciate her lust for adventure and her sense of humor and they'd likely band together to tease Sam mercilessly . . .

And maybe it would happen sooner rather than later. Could he convince Simone to abandon Nadine and Rafe and, instead, take their clues to Nathan? It was a question that Sam still couldn't answer and was, frankly, afraid to ask. It wasn't like they actually _had_ any clues, either.

"What're you--?" Sam laughed, pulled back to the here and now by Simone ducking under his arm and pushing her way between himself and the sink. She peered up at him with the sort of smile that made his knees weak and his dick throb, her hands working free the towel at his waist.

"What am I _what?_ " she asked, letting the towel fall to the floor and reaching to wrap a hand around him. "Oh, is this a problem?"  She grinned, "D'you want me to stop?"

Sam's chuckle was just a bit breathless and he shook his head, reaching out without looking to push the door closed. "Not a chance in hell."  

With insurances that they wouldn't be interrupted by a curious puppy in place, Sam's attention went completely back to the woman in front of him, his still-damp hands eagerly popping open the button on her pants. It was erotic, the feel of the leather beneath his palms, the way the material almost seemed to _sigh_ as the button released . . .

He helped boost her onto the sink, taking half a step back to free her legs and toss the undoubtedly expensive pants aside, then he was pressing between her thighs again and peppering her neck and chest with hungry kisses.  

It had taken a trip to the clinic in Edinburgh and a full STD screening for Simone to agree to tossing aside the condoms but, in Sam's opinion, the ordeal had been entirely worth it. Neither of them were harboring any diseases in their loins and Simone's birth control took care of the pregnancy factor, which meant that impromptu moments like this didn't have to be interrupted and both of them could enjoy sex without the latex barrier.

"We'll be late," Simone helpfully pointed out, but made no move to stop him as Sam slipped inside of her with only the slightest resistance, prompting the most delicious gasp from her lips as his length filled her.

God, she was always so _wet_. "Don't care," Sam answered, hands grasping her ass firmly and pulling her closer to the edge of the sink.  

"Neither do I," she admitted with a laugh and a welcoming roll of her hips.  

Being the one with the better leverage, Sam took most of her weight as Simone braced herself on the sink, clumsily knocking the shaving cream and the razor to the floor with a clatter as she wrapped her legs around his hips. The scent of her hair and her sex filled his nose, an intoxicating mix that spoke to the simpler parts of his brain - those parts that fed the need to cover her in his scent, to fill her with his cum, before going to ring in the New Year with her Shoreline co-workers. Simone was _his_ , those primal instincts screamed, and he wasn't above reminding every single one of them of that fact. And that included _Rafe_ , whose jealousy was a very real and very ugly thing that Sam had no issues with antagonizing.  

Simone's arms were trembling as she held herself steady on the sink and with every thrust of his hips, her breasts bounced under the silky thin material of her shirt. She was driving him wild just by being herself, filling his ears with moaning encouragement, and when he slipped a hand between them to rub his thumb over her clit, her gasps neared a fever pitch and she came with a bucking of hips.  

"God, you're so fuckin' sexy," he ground out, pulling her closer with arms wrapped around her waist. Simone's hands grasped at his shoulders, sliding up the back of his neck and drawing his face down to breathe in her scent there behind her ear . . .

The world fell away and in that moment, pressed against Simone, with the aftershocks of his orgasm trembling his muscles, Sam felt a moment of absolute clarity. This was what was important. This woman leaving trails of soft kisses along his neck and shoulder, her heart thumping against his chest, beating in time with his own, and Sam found his mouth opening and words passing his lips: "Will you marry me?"

Was it surprise that had Simone going very still in his arms, her breath catching softly in his ear, or was it happiness? Sam pulled back, his hands coming up to cup her face as he studied the angle of her eyebrows, the way her painted lip trembled . . .  

It wasn't the expression he'd expected and Sam found his own eyebrows drawing down in confusion and dismay and maybe bit of regret that he wasn't quite ready to indulge. "Simone?"

She was nodding though, small motions that caused her curls to bounce around her shoulders, brushing against his fingers. "I want to," she said. "Oh god, Sam, I _do_ .  I just . . ." Her eyes drifted away from his face, searching around the bathroom for the words to express herself. "We _will_."

Her words weren't reassuring and Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat, his stomach a nervous pit of nausea and roiling bile. "So let's do it then," he suggested, forging intrepidly ahead. "Why wait?  Simone, we can fly anywhere, tonight, and be married by tomorrow. We can start the new year as Mister and Missus Drake - for real."

She shook her head, emotion fading from her features. She no longer looked panicked, as if she might run or burst into tears, but the all-business set of her jaw didn't do much to smooth Sam's own frayed edges. "No, Sam," she said gently. "That's not what I want, baby. I want a . . . a _big_ wedding. I want our friends there; Nadine and . . . and _Nathan_ . . ." She ran her fingertips gently over his beard as she met his eyes, "I want a white dress and, I dunno, _bridesmaids_ or whatever . . ."

Sam blinked, surprised by her words. "Really?" Simone was spontaneous, adventurous, the type to chase her whims and let the chips fall where they may; she wasn't the Big White Wedding type - the _planning_ type. "Okay," he reluctantly agreed, nodding slowly. "If that's what you want."

"It is," Simone assured him, her face breaking into a smile. "And, jus' so we're clear, the answer is _yes_ , Sam. I _will_ marry you."

* * *

It had always been a struggle for Simone to exercise self control, being far too impulsive, as her father had always been quick to criticize. She'd gotten better with it as she's grown older; sniping was a lesson in patience and had taught her to wait until the time was right before pulling the trigger, but in her everyday life, Simone often wrestled with that notion.  

Truth was, she didn't want a white wedding or flowers or even a big dress. Truth was, she would marry Sam in an instant and she didn't care if it happened on a beach or at a petrol station, whether it was just the two of them or whether they were surrounded by friends and family. As long as they were together, their hearts and souls bared to each other, it would have been good enough for Simone. But there was no way they could marry now; maybe _someday_ but certainly not tomorrow.  

So she'd lied - _again_ \- because she could hardly tell the man she wanted a future with that she had already said _I do_ or that he'd have to wait for her current husband to die before they could legally marry. She'd locked onto that self control with deadly efficiency, gone through the motions of getting dressed, finishing her make-up, walking up to the main castle with her _fiance´_ , getting them drinks, making small talk with the other contractors . . . and through it all she'd smiled and laughed and pretended, for all the world to see, that her lies weren't completely eating her up inside.  

She couldn't keep it up forever though and her tension was growing with every passing minute that crept them closer to midnight and the New Year it heralded.  She felt as if she were crawling out of her skin, annoyed by the small crowd of contractors who'd stayed in Scotland for the holiday season, nervous about the amount of alcohol flowing and her own tension was only amplified by Sam's. He didn't like these sort of crowds, she'd learned, especially made up as it was by Shoreline contractors. _It's too easy for it to get out of control,_ he'd explained when she'd asked. _To turn into a riot._ She'd argued that twenty drunk Shoreliners were hardly enough to constitute a riot, but he hadn't budged, only explained further that twenty men could cause a lot of damage.

She'd thought it was silly, maybe a bit paranoid, but she hadn't pressed the issue. This time though, _this time_ , she understood. There was something in the air, as if the entire night were holding its breath . . .

"Are you okay?"

Simone's eyes darted to Sam, "What? _Ja_ , I'm fine."

His eyebrows lowered, "Are you sure?  D'you want to leave?"

Oh god, did she ever! "I really would love to.  I 'ave a headache," she lied, leaping at the chance to make their escape. "Let me just find Nadine and let'er know?"

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed, obviously relieved that she was game for cutting out early. "I'll get the coats."

It only took a minute of searching to find Nadine in the library, her face set in a mask of dubious amusement as Sergei drunkenly regaled her with a tale of one of his often embellished stories, and only another moment for Nadine to take one look at her and determine that something was wrong.  

"What is it?" Nadine asked without preamble.

Simone's lips pressed together, but her sister's steady gaze had her resolve wavering. "Can I talk t'ya?"

Nadine was nodding, reaching out to wrap an arm around Simone's shoulders and usher her toward the nearest doorway.

* * *

When his evening had started, Rafe had been in a decent mood. Tired from his flight in from New York, maybe, but he'd been ready to laugh and celebrate, to start the New Year off on the right foot because _this_ was the year he'd find Avery's treasure. They were close, he could feel it in his bones, and it was only a matter of time before one of these clues panned out.  

That good mood had been steadily declining with every sip of scotch he'd downed, annoyed by every moment he had to spend watching Sam and Simone in each others company. It wasn't something he was normally witness to, these acts of affection, being that he rarely spent time with the two of them together. In fact, he and Simone had barely exchanged more than a handful of words since the last time he'd cornered her in the hallway.  

Still, it was easy enough to recognize her voice as Rafe hesitated just outside the Smoking Room door, his ears picking up bits of whispered conversation:

"When?"

"Tonight.  While we were gettin' ready to come up 'ere.  He just . . . _asked_."

Nadine's sigh drifted through the open doorway, "Simone, you 'ave to tell him."

"Nadine, I _can't_.  He'll be so mad . . ."

"You 'ave to.  If you want to 'ave a chance at marryin' him, then you 'ave to tell him everything."

Rafe's lips parted and despite the buzz of intoxication he quickly put the pieces together, realizing that Sam didn't know about Simone's husband. At first the notion seemed preposterous - didn't _everyone_ know that Simone was married? - but then when did Sam ever willingly communicate with the Shoreline contractors? He always seemed to avoid them as often as he could and every conversation Rafe had been witness to had been painfully impersonal. Could he really blame any of those guys for not wanting to be the one to spill the beans to their boss's sister's lover?

On the heels of that surprise came indignant anger thumping hot through his veins, but he wasn't sure if that anger was directed at Simone, for lying to Sam for so long, or at _Sam_ for wanting to marry her at all. Rafe's lips twisted into a bitter snarl. Why did he even care? Sam had made it clear that he wasn't interested . . .

Rafe had never dealt well with rejection though and that embarrassment had his resolve hardening and his vision narrowing as he drained the last of his Scotch, set the glass on the edge of the billiard table, and set off to find Sam.

* * *

With jackets in hand, Sam wound his way through the small crowd, skirting around a table where two contractors had set up an impromptu game of Quarters and keeping an eye open for Simone's familiar shape. Instead, he found _Rafe_.

Sam would've had to be an idiot to miss the way Rafe's mood had grown steadily more sour, the frown lines between his eyebrows deepening with every passing hour, and Sam's plans to avoid the other man for the rest of the evening were quickly waylaid. Rafe was headed straight for him, with his face set in a determined glower and his eyes ringed in the faintest blush of red, and Sam found tension knotting his shoulders with every step that brought them closer. Something was _wrong_.

"Did everyone hear the good news?" Rafe asked, his voice rising over the buzz of voices and easily drawing the attention of those near them.

Sam drew to a stop, his stomach twisting in apprehension as Rafe's eyes locked on him. There were a million announcements that a rich man could make to a crowd on New Year's Eve but Sam knew that whatever came out of Rafe's mouth next wouldn't have anything to do with a merger or an acquisition or whatever-the-fuck else.

And Sam was _right_.

"Tonight, my dear friend, Samuel Drake, asked Simone Ross to marry him."

The words were mostly met with silence - with the exception of a rude and incredulous chuckle from someone - and though Sam's eyes may not have left Rafe, he could feel the contractors' gazes settle on him. The sudden attention had Sam's teeth clenching, his hands tightening around the jackets he held and he opened his mouth to tell Rafe, in no uncertain terms, to _fuck off_ \--

But Rafe shook his head and let out a chuckle, holding up one hand, "Oh wait, wait. Did I say Simone Ross? Of course, I meant Simone _Mthembu_ . It's been a long time since she was a Ross." He glanced around, as if suddenly confused, "Or, was she _ever_ a Ross? Where's Nadine? She'd know."

Confusion had Sam's brows lowering, his face burning, and he chanced a glance around him. Everyone was watching him, their expressions ranging anywhere from sympathetic to amused, but Sam hadn't the slightest clue what Rafe was talking about and there was no hiding it. "Rafe . . ." he started, warning clear in his voice.

"Whatsa matter, Samuel? She never told you about her husband?"

Sam's heart was suddenly hammering, beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs as they constricted and for a painful second, he swore his entire chest was caving in. He couldn't breathe, his face burning with embarrassment as his brain persistently refused to make sense of what was happening around him. He was still dimly aware of the eyes on him, the murmur of voices surrounding him - … ' _he didn't know' ... 'she never told him…_ ' - but all he could see were Rafe's lips twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes lit with dark amusement as he continued: "She never told you that she married a rich old prick for his money? That she's just one of three wives? Her husband is soaked in so much blood that he makes the rest of us look squeaky clean . . ."

It wasn't true. It had to be a lie. It was just Rafe - petty and jealous _Rafe_ \- trying to hurt him because in his tiny, twisted, brain he thought that Sam should have chosen him instead . . .

"Did she tell you that I asked her to keep an eye on you? That she only _fucked you_ because I asked her to?"

"Rafe, _shut up!_ "

Simone's voice cut through the sound of blood rushing in Sam's ears and his eyes snapped to her familiar figure as she pushed her way through the small crowd. Her face was flushed with anger, her balled fists trembling, but it was the shine of tears in her eyes that had Sam taking a step back in desperate retreat.

It was a small movement but Simone reacted to it as if it were a physical blow, her shoulders falling and her mouth opening. "Sam, I--"

And there was a part of him that wanted to comfort her, to reach for her and draw her into his arms so he could smooth the sorrow from her brow and kiss the frown from her lips, but those tears and the regret that etched her features told him all he needed to know. Rafe _wasn't_ lying.

"He needed to know the truth, Simone!" Rafe insisted.

"Shut the fuck up, Rafe!" Sam heard Nadine snap, but he was already turning and walking away.

Sam still held both his jacket and Simone's, forgotten in his hands, but he'd heard enough and the sudden need to get away from the stifling press of bodies, the feel of eyes on him, had him moving with single-minded determination. He needed air. He needed a cigarette. He needed to get as far away from his _fiance'_ as possible because _fuck Simone_ . Fuck her lies and her bullshit stories, fuck her smile and her freckles, and the way she made him feel _complete_ . . .

The frigid Scotland air stole whatever breath remained in Sam's lungs as he pushed his way through the door and into the night. There was snow beneath his booted feet but above him the sky was clear and sparkling with stars and Sam slowed, chin tipping up as his eyes automatically sought out the constellations. Cassiopeia, the beautiful and vain Queen of Ethiopia, forever chained to her throne in punishment for angering Poseidon . . .

"Sam?"

With his head tipped back, Sam allowed his eyes to drift closed - perhaps so he wouldn't be tempted to look at the woman behind him or maybe so the tears would stay where they were meant to be. "It's all true." It wasn't a question, the words spoken with a calm sort of resolution.

"Yes," Simone answered, her voice so soft that he nearly turned to look at her.

"Were you gonna tell me?"

"I meant to," she admitted. "I tried so many times but" - her voice broke on a shivery sob - "but I was so scared t'lose you that every time I tried the words wouldn't come . . ."

Sam's eyes blinked open and he turned to find her standing with her arms crossed, her bare skin prickled with goosebumps and her breath fogging in the cold. There were mascara tinted tears on her cheeks, her eyes shining with moisture yet to be shed, and she looked so lost and alone that he found himself stepping closer and holding out her jacket so he wouldn't pull her into his arms instead. So he wouldn't _forgive her._

Simone reached for it, wrapping it around her shoulders as she swore, "I'll tell you everything, Sam. Every little bit - I _promise_."

His hand fell back to his side and he shook his head, anger tightening his features. "Save it, Simone," he ground out. "I've heard enough." And for the second time that night, he turned away from her and walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited on 7/16 because I somehow LOST ALL MY FUCKING FORMATTING.


End file.
